


You, Me, and the Devil Makes Three

by Luna_Hart



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Recovering, But mostly Brock and Bucky, Emotional Dysfunction, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Mind Control, Past Torture, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Recovery, Soul Bond, good guy Brock Rumlow, winterbones - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-17 16:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 114,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12369282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: Brock Rumlow has dreamt of ice for as long as he can remember. James Barnes, no longer a prisoner of HYDRA, is barely holding himself together.Six months after the fall of HYDRA, Brock Rumlow is taken into custody. When chance throws the two men back together, strange things start happening that has everyone asking questions. Will they be able to overcome the challenges and help each other heal? Or will old wounds and the prejudice of others keep them apart?





	1. It Hurts Me Too

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone here reading my Snapshot series, never fear! I am in no way abandoning it for this new story. Just couldn't wait to share this one any longer!

 

“On your knees, Rumlow!” Steve barked, cold rage burning in his chest. The man in front of him had the audacity to smirk as he raised his hands to the side. “Good to see you too, Cap,” Rumlow chuckled as a dozen SHIELD agents in full tactical gear folded in around him from all sides. Natasha stood beside Steve, gun trained on Rumlow’s head.

It had been six months since they had foiled HYDRA’s attempt to launch the helicarriers and Steve had managed to break through the programming that had been forced into the head of his best friend, James Barnes. Steve was still having difficulty processing the fact that Bucky was alive. It had been a long uphill battle, one that was far from finished, to bring Bucky back to himself.

The fact that Steve could finally bring one of the men responsible for torturing and brainwashing his best friend to justice helped a little. The last time anyone had seen Rumlow had been when he fled the commander centre of the Triskelion after failing to launch the helicarriers. They had finally found him holed up in a dingy motel in Indiana.

“Knees. Now.” Steve growled. “Kinky,” Rumlow smirked, slowly getting to his knees. Steve gritted his teeth as he non too gently hiked Rumlow’s arms up behind his back and shoved him forward onto the ground. “Easy, Cap. At least buy me a drink first,” Rumlow drawled as Steve snapped the cuffs into place. “Shut up,” Steve growled, hauling Rumlow to his feet. Rumlow turned around, looking him over with a sharp eye.

“You look tired, Cap,” Rumlow said. “Getting enough sleep these days? I’m sure rehabbing your old war buddy is taking up —,” Rumlow didn’t get another word in as Steve punched him full across the face. The man’s head snapped to the side, the force of the blow making him stagger. “Steve,” Natasha murmured from behind him with a warning tone.

Rumlow straightened, hair mussed and blood trickling down his chin and that stupid smirk still in place. As far as Steve was concerned, the man was lucky he still had all his teeth. “Get him out of here,” Steve growled. He watched as two agents led Rumlow away. He felt a small hand rest on his arm and he realized he had been clenching his fists hard enough to leave imprints in his tactical gloves.

He glanced down at Natasha, who was looking up at him with understanding eyes. “We got him,” she said quietly. “We got him, Steve. It’s over.” Steve nodded, but somehow it didn’t feel like it was.

 

 

 

Miles away, at the Avenger’s Tower on Steve’s private floor, James Buchanan Barnes woke with a gasp. He swung his feet off the bed, taking a shaky breath. His sleep schedule was all over the place lately. It was more like a series of short naps. He never was able to sleep longer than an hour or two at a time.

The nightmares always woke him up.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the side of it feeling tender. He had probably been clenching his teeth in his sleep again. He stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. He glanced up in the mirror, taking in the dark circles and gaunt expression.

He swallowed thickly, looking away. He looked like a ghost. He felt like one too, drifting through the days without a purpose. Steve kept saying it would get better, that as his memories came back it would get better. It had been six months now. It wasn’t better.

He had just gotten better at pretending it was.

He made his way back into the bedroom, intent on trying to get at least a couple more hours of sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, grimacing as he rubbed at his wrist. The skin felt tender and sore, like a pair of cuffs strapped too tight for too long. Probably the remnants of whatever nightmare he had experienced. _'Phantom pain'_ his therapist called it. A psychosomatic response to reliving trauma. 

He ran a shaky hand nervously through his long hair. He wasn’t sure why but he felt so agitated. He could usually calm himself down pretty quickly after a nightmare. His therapist had given him breathing exercises, but he was having trouble focusing right now. He sighed, giving up on trying to understand his fucked up brain. Instead he got up and wandered out to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

He had a feeling there was no way in hell he would get any more sleep tonight.

 

 

 


	2. Key To Happiness Is A Bad Memory

Steve watched as Rumlow groaned in frustration. He shared the feeling, albeit for different reasons. “For the last time. I. Don’t. Know.” The man growled, glaring across the table at the tweedy little agent who had been asking him questions for the past hour.

“How’s our pet HYDRA agent cooperating?” Tony drawled as he stepped up beside him. Steve huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s not,” Steve sighed. “You really expected him too?” Tony asked with raised eyebrows.

Steve didn’t have a reply for that. “What are you doing here anyways?” He said, realizing that the billionaire’s appearance on the prison level of the new Brooklyn SHIELD facility was a little out of place. “Brushing up SHIELD’s security. Figured you’d be down here for the weekly grilling,” Tony said with a shrug and a not-so-subtle glance out of the corner of his eye. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” Steve replied automatically. “Liar,” Tony quipped, seeing straight through him as always. “It’s just…” Steve sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know.” Tony sighed, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his expensive suit. “I’m worried about you, Cap. We all are. You eat only when someone reminds you. You’re barely sleeping. It’s like you’re turning into me,” he said, smirking invitingly to include Steve in the joke.

Steve just shook his head. “Bucky gets nightmares,” he said softly as way of reply. He didn't need to say anything else apparently. Tony hummed and didn’t pry any further.

“What more do you want me to say?!” Rumlow’s voice snapped through the intercom. Steve turned back to see the man’s face dark with anger and frustration. “What were you doing on September twenty-third of last year in Bucharest?” The agent asked in a nasally voice. “For the last fucking time,” Rumlow snapped. “I wasn’t in Bucharest last year.”

“Then why,” the agent said, opening his file and sliding a few surveillance photos across the table. “Do we have photos of you and a team in Bucharest?” Brock glared daggers at the man before glancing down at the photos. “You’ll note the date and time stamp as well,” the agent sniffed.

Steve watched as Rumlow’s face transformed from openly hostile to unsure and even a little frightened. The man’s body tensed, his mouth parting but no words came out. His eyes darted across the photos. Steve frowned, glancing across to Tony. The man had his eyes locked on the glass, looking as confused as Steve by Rumlow’s reaction.

“I…I don’t,” Rumlow stumbled, swallowing thickly. “I don’t remember,” he said softly. “You don’t remember,” the agent said disbelievingly. Steve frowned as he watched Rumlow pinch the bridge of his nose with a grimace. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it?” The dark haired man growled.

“How can you not remember—” The agent began but Brock cut him off swiftly. “I don’t remember!" He snapped sharply. "Now are we done here, asshole?” He said, scowling. The agent bristled but began gathering his papers together all the same.

“Think he’s lying?” Tony asked, turning to Steve. “Absolutely,” Steve said with complete certainty.

“He’s not lying.”

Steve and Tony turned to see the tweedy agent, closing the door of the observation room behind him. “You’re sure?” Steve insisted. The agent sniffed, turning his nose up at the mere thought he could be wrong. “As sure as a polygraph test can reveal. One can be trained to deceive them. It isn’t a perfect science.”

With another sniff, he turned on his heels and marched out of the room. Steve turned to Tony, who just shrugged. “Not the answer you were expecting I take it,” Tony said slowly. “He’s learned how to beat the test,” Steve replied, gritting his teeth. “It’s the only explanation.”

“Maybe,” Tony said slowly. “We could bring him back to the Tower. Jarvis is the best lie detector ever built. No one can beat him.” Steve shook his head. “I’m not having him in the same building as Bucky.” Tony flapped a hand, cavalierly dismissing Steve’s worry. “The Tower’s big enough that they’d never have to know the other was there.”

“I said no,” Steve said, finality in his tone. Tony sighed. “I just hate the idea of this asshole getting away with anything.”

“You and me both,” Steve muttered as he watched the guards escort Rumlow back to his cell.

 

 

 

“Bucky. Bucky!”

James started, glancing up to Steve’s worried look. He mentally kicked himself. Who knows how long Steve was trying to get his attention. He tended to zone out a lot these days. Sometimes he would be trapped in a memory, other times he wouldn’t be thinking of anything. He’d just space, get trapped staring into middle space. Mind blank.

“Sorry, what?” He muttered, looking up at the blonde. Steve gave him an understanding smile, eyes worried. James sighed. Steve always looked worried these days. It made guilt churn in his gut, being the reason Steve looked that way.

“Team’s all downstairs. Pizza’s getting cold,” Steve said with a smile. James frowned in confusion. He didn’t even know what day of the week it was. “Movie night, Buck. Come on, everyone’s waiting.” That meant it was Sunday. James stood on reflex, trailing after Steve as he headed to the elevator.

He still wasn’t sure if he liked being called ‘Bucky’ anymore. Steve called him ‘Bucky’, sometimes ‘Buck’. The others did the same because that’s what Steve did. The thing is, he didn’t feel like ‘Bucky’ anymore. That name belonged to another time, another person. Someone who he could remember, but didn’t know how to be anymore. He wasn’t sure ‘James’ fit anymore either, which is why he didn’t bother to correct them.

Either was better than ‘Soldier’ or ‘Asset’.

He had this strange feeling that there was another name, one that felt bitter at the same time as it felt comforting. He couldn’t quite remember. It was like trying to recall something from a dream; you grasp at it, only to have it slip through your fingers.

He was shaken from his musings as the elevator dinged and the doors opened. He followed Steve out onto the communal floor, into the large living room where the everyone was already waiting for them.

“About freaking time!” Clint said, raising his hands in the air. He was sprawled out across half a couch, taking up far more room than necessary. Natasha sat beside him, with Stark in the love-seat to the left. Sam and Bruce both took a chair, leaving half a love-seat and another chair free. James tucked himself next to Natasha on the couch. It gave him the best sight lines for the room, plus there was no way he was going to sit next to Stark.

When he had first arrived at the Tower, he was overwhelmed to say the least. Stark made him nervous, with his fast and aggressive way of talking. He also had the habit of staring at his prosthetic arm. That hungry spark in his eye was the same one James had seen many times reflected in other’s eyes; doctors and scientists that wanted to take him apart to see what made him tick.

In the beginning Natasha had watched him with a wary eye everywhere he went. It was like she was just waiting for him to snap. Because of this, he had avoided her until one night when nightmares drove him out of his bedroom. He had risked a trip to the communal kitchen upon realizing Steve’s kitchen was out of mint tea. 

There he had found one red-headed former Russian assassin sitting at the counter sporting fuzzy socks and an oversized Avengers t-shirt. She wordlessly made him a cup of hot cocoa, never asking why he was up and wandering the Tower at three in the morning.

Three days later and it was Natasha who came into the kitchen to find James standing at the stove, pouring two mugs of chocolaty goodness. They never talked but James was actually grateful for that. It was nice not have any pressure to hold up a conversation. He got enough of that from Steve and his therapist. It eventually became a unspoken tradition, one that James actually looked forward to.

Bruce was nice but James tended to avoid him as well, not because of the Other Guy as they had taken to calling him but just because he is a doctor. Again, James didn’t have the best history with doctors. They tended to make him twitchy. James almost felt bad for avoiding the man, but Bruce didn’t seem to take it personally.

Clint was the one James got along best with in the Tower, besides Steve. If you called it getting along. They really didn’t hang out or anything. Clint just didn’t bullshit. He didn’t dance around anything. He was straight forward and blunt to a point of being insensitive and it was refreshing.

The first time he had met the archer, the blonde man walked up to him with a lollypop in his mouth. A fucking lollypop. Without a word, he had held out an unwrapped one. James hadn’t know what to do so he just took it, feeling completely bewildered. Clint had then proceeded to ask a highly inappropriate question in regards to his metal appendage which had got Steve blushing and spluttering. He probably would have protested more but James had laughed. He had actually laughed.

James had only met Thor once, which had been a bit of a shock to meet a God in the flesh. Thor was loud and big and overwhelming, but James could see he meant well. He was in Asgard on business these last few months and when he returned, he planned on spending some quality time with his Jane.

He jumped a little when Natasha held out a bowl of popcorn under his nose. She raised her eyebrows an inch, silently asking if he was alright. He mentally cursed. He had zoned out again. He shook his head to clear it, grabbing a handful of popcorn.

Steve and Stark were arguing over what movie to watch. Stark was saying something about Termination, or Terminal. James focused again on the words. Terminator? Whatever it was, Stark didn’t seem to be able to keep a straight face. Clint snorted, spraying popcorn all over the floor as Natasha rolled her eyes. James felt like he was missing something. As usual. “No, Tony. Just no,” Steve said firmly. “No,” he said again as Stark opened his mouth.

“What’s next on the list?” Natasha interrupted. “Finding…Nemo?” Steve said hesitantly, reading the list off his phone. “Hey, there’s a fish in it with a wonky memory just like you!” Clint exclaimed, twisting around on the couch so his head ended up in Natasha’s lap and he was looking up at James.

James rolled his eyes but he was secretly happy that at least one of these people was at ease enough with him to tease. Or suicidal enough. In Clint’s case, he hadn’t decided yet. “Now that’s uncalled for,” Steve scolded but Clint just threw a piece of popcorn at his head.

The movie was cute but very strange. James didn’t get a bunch of the references that had the others giggling, but he was happy to notice that some of it was going over Steve’s head as well. It made it better that Clint kept muttering jokes about James and his memory being like a fish under his breath. By the time the credits were rolling, James was stifling yawns. He didn’t want to chance falling asleep in front of people. Steve seemed to pick up on James exhaustion and made excuses for them both, guiding James back to their floor.

“I’m fine, Steve,” James insisted as they stepped into the elevator. “You don’t have to babysit me. Stay, have fun. I’m just tired.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve said as the elevator whisked them up to their floor. “Seriously, Steve. I’m fine. Really.” James insisted. “You sure?” Steve hesitated as the elevator doors opened to their floor. “Yes,” James insisted, stepping out through the doors. “I’m fine. Go have fun.”

“If you're sure,” Steve hesitated again. “Jesus Stevie, you're talking in circles,” James said because he knew that using that it made the man smile when he used that nickname. “Go,” James said, forcing a smile. “Okay,” Steve said, stepping back into the elevator. “Try and get some sleep,” he said sincerely as the elevator doors closed.

James let the forced smile drop from his face with a sigh. It was exhausting, keeping collected all the time. Steve probably thought he was doing alright but the truth was he felt like he was falling apart at the seams.

He knew so many things now; about his past, about who he was before falling from the train, but it was because he had been told. It was because he had read it or seen the video clips. It wasn’t because he truly remembered them.

Everything he truly remembered was filled with screams and blood and ice. Sometimes he wondered it it would be better, easier to just forget.

 

 

 

 

_It was cold. Freezing actually. It felt like an icy hand was gripping his chest. The ice crept up his throat, choking him. He couldn’t breath, it was like breathing ice water._

_He couldn’t feel his fingers or ears. His fingers were going numb. They were slipping, slipping. He couldn’t hold on any longer…_

_And then he was falling. He screamed, but the wind snatched his voice away. The same wind grabbed at his clothes and hair, bitingly cold as he tumbled end over end. Unable to control his fall. Unable to slow his fall…._

 

 

Brock woke with a start, limbs flailing with the lingering sensations of falling. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, wiping sleep and the lingering memories away. He shivered, a chill sweeping through him.

He hated that dream. He’d had it for as long as he could remember, ever since he was a child. Usually it was just the ice, a painful freezing feeling that would creep up his body, freezing his chest until he couldn't breath, creeping up his throat until it choked him. Some nights were worse than others. Some nights the dream would morph into something more. The ice would numb his fingers and then suddenly he’d be falling. Tumbling end over end, without any control.

“Unpleasant dreams?” A sarcastically-toned voice sounded through his cell’s intercom.

Brock glanced up, startled, to the dark haired man standing on the other side of the glass. “I do hope so,” the man continued, a smarmy smirk on his face. “What do you want, Stark?” Brock asked with a sigh, heaving himself into a sitting position. “I want you to pay for your crimes,” Stark said bluntly, tucking his hands into his suit pockets. Brock sighed again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He was going to get the speech, he could tell.

“I want you to suffer,” Stark continued, taking a step closer to the glass. “I want you to be unable to live with yourself. I want you do dread going to bed because it’ll mean you have to wake up the next morning and look at yourself in the mirror.”

“You done?” Brock said, keeping his voice even and bored. He had heard this speech before, in so many different variations. “Almost,” the man said swiftly. “You see, most of all, I want justice. I’m not gonna let you get away with any of it. So, we’re going on a little road trip.”

Two burly guards armed with stun batons opened the door to his cell and stepped in. “Let’s go, Rumlow,” the agent said, holding handcuffs, leg cuffs, and a belly chain. “Where we going?” Brock asked, making no move to stand because fuck these assholes. “Don’t make this difficult,” the agent growled. “You’ll only get hurt.” A stun baton crackled ominously. Brock hesitated but then decided he didn’t feel like getting electrocuted today.

He stood, staring Stark down impassively as the agents shackled his ankles and wrists, securing them to the chain wrapped around his hips. “Let’s go, Corleone,” Stark drawled, arrogantly beckoning to him with two fingers. Brock huffed. He decided he didn't like this man.

 

  
Brock felt more and more agitated the longer the car ride took. Eventually, the car descended into a underground parkade. The car stopped and the agents hauled Brock roughly out of the car. He barely caught himself from falling flat on his face.

A hand wrapped around his bicep and yanked him upright. “Assholes,” Brock muttered. He flinched, grimacing as the burly agent jammed the butt of his baton into Brock’s kidney. “Move,” the agent growled.

Stark didn't even look over his shoulder as he strode boldly towards the elevators. “Labs,  J,” Stark spoke to the air. “Of course, sir,” a cordial British sounding male voice sounded from thin air. Brock’s eyebrows raised in surprise and mild shock. Based on that voice, there was only one place that he could be. If he was agitated before, he was downright nervous now. He unconsciously shifted his weight. “Nervous?” Stark said with a self-satisfied smirk. “You should be.”

Brock really didn’t like this man.

The elevator dinged as the doors opened on Steve Rogers. His arms were crossed over his chest and his eyes snapped with anger as they stared harshly first at Brock, then shifting to Stark. “Tony,” he said icily.

“Cap, listen,” Tony tried, stepping out of the elevator with his hands raised placatingly. “I specifically said I didn’t want you to bring him here,” Rogers snapped.

“Steve, if you’ll just here me out—,”

“Tony, other people live here! Maybe they don’t want to be staying under the same roof as a convicted traitor!”

“So this is what it feels like to be the prettiest girl at the dance,” Brock muttered to the agent next to him as Stark and Rogers continued to argue. The man just scowled and ignored him.

The agents were getting antsy as well. “Fine,” Rogers finally hissed through his teeth. “But I’m not letting _him_ ,” he added, stabbing a finger in Brock’s direction. “Out of my sight!”

 

  
Brock and the agents followed Stark and Rogers past various glass-windowed labs filled with convoluted and oft-times terrifying looking equipment. They strode most of it before stepping into one near the end of a long hallway.

The room sprawled out in all directions, with two sides being floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city. It was a fantastic view, although Brock wasn’t able to appreciate it for long. A man was perched on a tall stool, intently reading some sort of schematic projected in a hologram above the table.

“Bruce-y, I bring a project,” Stark said in a singsong voice, making his way over to the dark-haired man. The man turned, removing a set of delicate glasses from his nose. Of course Brock knew who Dr. Bruce Banner was, he had just never met the man in person. Banner’s gaze alighted on Brock and his eyebrows raised. His eyes flicked from the shackles, across the dark blue uniform with the inmate number stamped across his chest.

“I see,” the man said slowly, finally meeting Brock’s gaze. Brock decided to not comment. “What kind of project?” Stark launched into a rant that included a lot of techno babble coupled with frenetic hand gestures. Brock stopped trying to follow along. Rogers stood to the side, arms crossed and looking grumpy.

“Okay, fantastic!” Stark said as Banner nodded. “Hey! Tall, dark, and burly,” he said, snapping his fingers towards the two agents with Brock. “Over here.” Stark pointed to what looked like a dental chair sitting surrounded by various machines and leads.

“Whoah, whoah, whoah! What are you doing?” Brock said, digging his heels in as the agents moved to drag him over to the chair. “Hey, what are you doing?!” He snapped as the agents wrenched him forward. Panic he didn’t really understand bubbled up in his chest as he eyed the chair, his feet scrambling for purchase on the slippery floor.

“Relax, drama queen,” Stark drawled. “We aren’t gonna torture you. Yet,” he added with a nasty smirk. “Tony,” Banner scolded lightly. Brock was not amused. “What the fuck is this?” He growled, jerking back against the agent’s hold. “It’s just a polygraph test,” Banner said calmly, taking pity on him. “ ‘Scue you?” Stark said, sounding insulted. “Just a polygraph?”

“What?” Brock said in disbelief. “Well, it’s a bit more then that. You see—,” Stark was cut off as Banner elbowed him in the ribs. “….yeah, okay. It’s a glorified polygraph,” Stark relented under the glare Banner levelled at him. “Seeing how you’ve managed to beat the regular one, I figured we’d have to take it a step further.”

“I…what?” Brock said again. Beat a polygraph? Brock knew it was possible to learn how, but it wasn’t something he could do. He could lie with the best of them, but even he had never managed to fool the test.

“It’s completely painless, I promise,” Stark drawled. A chill ran through Brock. Those words echoed uncomfortably in his head. He swallowed nervously as the agent’s dragged him over and pushed him down into the chair. They pulled out another set of cuffs and strapped Brock’s wrists down to the arms of the chair. Brock focused on his breathing.

In and out.

Slow and steady.

He knew what the signs of a panic attack. He’d had them before. He didn’t have a clue what had sparked such a reaction, but trying to figure it out just made him feel more agitated. So he focused on breathing. Just breathing.

In and out. In and out.

He flinched when something touched his arm, yanking against his restraints as his heartbeat tripled. “Easy,” Banner murmured, taking his hands away. He waved off the agents who had bristled and stepped forward, hands on their batons. He raised his other hand, showing Brock the electrodes he held. “Okay?” He asked. Brock nodded, surprised at being asked.

Banner worked quickly, attaching the electrodes to his chest and temples, clipping a heart monitor to his finger. “Ok Jarvis, everything up and running?” Stark asked from where he was typing away at one of the computers. “Affirmative sir,” that disembodied voice spoke again. “I have a strong read on all of Agent Rumlow’s vitals. Ready when you are, sir.”

“Okay, let’s set up a control. Tell me a truth,” the billionaire said, spinning on the stool to face Brock. Rogers stood beside him while Banner took another seat across from Stark.

“My name is Brock Rumlow,” he said. A few things beeped and changed on the holographic readouts, making Stark nod. “Okay, and now a lie.”

“I’m secretly your biggest fan,” Brock said dryly. More beeps. “Ha ha,” Stark responded sarcastically. “Okay, we’re all set here.” He spun around to look behind him to Rogers. Brock stared boldly back at the blonde, refusing to be intimidated by the man’s cold glare.

 

  
“What?” Stark said in disbelief. “As I said,” Jarvis repeated patiently. “Agent Rumlow is not lying.”

“I could have told you that,” Rumlow muttered, wishing his hands were free so he could massage his temples. He had a headache again, pounding at the base of his skull and across his temples. They had been at it for hours, asking all the same fucking questions SHIELD had been asking for weeks. He clenched his eyes against the stab of the neon lights of the lab.

“I knew this would be a waste of time,” Rogers growled as he stalked out of the lab. Stark huffed a harsh sigh. “Field trips over, Grumpy. Back to your box,” he said, snapping his fingers in Brock’s direction.

“Just gimme a sec,” Banner said distractedly, suddenly getting up from his perch. He had been completely silent throughout the whole interrogation until now. Brock looked up in surprise. “Look here,” Banner said, bringing a pen light up to Brock’s eyes. Brock flinched back, the light painfully bright. “You usually sensitive to bright light?” Banner asked mildly. Brock grunted in confirmation. “Headaches?”

“Yeah,” Brock said slowly as Banner unhooked the electrodes. “With your permission, I’d like to run a CT scan.” Stark snorted harshly. “Bruce, come on. Why waste time on—,”

“Tony,” Banner said calmly, glancing over his shoulder. “I’d like to run the scan.” Stark raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, but I ain’t paying for it. Oh wait, it’s my lab so I guess I have to.” Banner ignored him as he kept ranting. He turned back to Brock, raising an eyebrow. It took Brock a second to realize that the doctor was waiting for him to give permission. Brock blinked. It had been a while since anyone had asked what he wanted. “Uh..yeah, sure, I guess.”

 

  
“Not much longer, Agent Rumlow,” Banner’s voice sounded through the intercom. Brock took a slow breath, trying to relax. After being threatened six ways to Sunday with various scenarios of unpleasant bodily harm, the agents had removed Brock’s cuffs and allowed Banner to set him up in the scanner. Of course Stark would have a fully functioning hospital equipped with a CT scanner.

“And we are done. Just a moment, please.” Brock sat up. He could see Banner and Stark through the mirror, looking at the results. There was suddenly a lot of pointing and typing and looks of concern and disbelief. “The fuck?” Brock muttered, hopping off the machine. Before his feet even touched the ground, the two SHIELD agents burst through the door. They grabbed him roughly, slamming him up against the wall. “For fuck’s sake,” Brock growled as his hands were yanked behind his back and cuffed again.

Upon behind unpinned from the wall, Brock could see the Stark and Banner seemed to be arguing quite heatedly now, complete with lots of gesturing to computer screens. Brock felt a uneasy fluttering sensation in his stomach as he watched them argue. He just wished he could hear them, considering it seemed to be his brain they were discussing.

After a moment Banner looked up and beckoned to the agents. Brock found himself escorted up into the observation room. He found that Rogers had joined them now too, standing at the back of the room with his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were wary as they tracked Brock’s every move. Tony leaned back in his chair, seemingly deep in thought.

“I have the results of your scan,” Banner said, typing away at the computer. “Have a seat, Agent Rumlow.”

Brock cautiously sat down. Banner pulled up a brain scan in a hologram projection above the table. “See these dark patches? Here and here?” Banner said, pointing to a few shadowy marks which stood out against the pale grey of the scan.

Brock felt all the anxiety and nervous anticipation drain from him in an instance. “Is that all?” Brock asked. “That’s what all the fuss is about?” He could feel the surprise radiate off the three men as they turned to stare at him. “You knew about this?” Banner asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Well…yeah,” Brock said, shrugging. “Doc said it’s the reason for my wonky memory.”

“Wonky memory?” Stark jumped on him, eyes intent. Brock glanced up to Rogers, who watched him with a closed-off stare. “Yeah, I have…gaps,” Brock said hesitantly. It wasn’t something he really liked to talk about. No one beyond the HYDRA doctors had known. Well, not true. Jack had known, but it wasn't something even he could get Brock to talk about.

So it was something Brock really didn’t want to talk about with these people. “What do you mean by gaps?” Banner inquired, eyes almost kind as they looked at him. “I don’t know, gaps!” He said, throwing up his cuffed hands in exasperation. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Rogers tense. Brock ignored him. “Got my head cracked open one to many times. Caused scar tissue to develop. Effected my long term memory.”

He swallowed hard. Jack had always been the one to fill in the gaps for him. Whenever Brock would get confused by something, Jack would be there to explain it. He never teased, never got frustrated by having to constantly remind Brock of the things he’d forgotten. It hurt to remember, so Brock shoved the memory aside and focused back on the man sitting in front of him.

Banner said nothing, just gave him a really long and calculating look. Stark was doing the same. And then Banner and Stark shared a look. Brock just felt confused and a little wary. Judging by the look on Rogers face, he was as in the dark as Brock was.

Banner sighed, turning to type away at the computer again. “I’ve seen this type of scarring only once before. It actually has a very distinct pattern when you know what to looking for.” He pulled up another scan. Brock could see the same shadowy looking patches on the same part on the brain, although this new scan had far more damage.

“It’s caused by prolonged electromagnetic stimulation,” Banner said slowly. “In both of these cases, it was focused on the hippocampus, the memory centre of the brain. Depending on duration and intensity, it would result in the subject losing brief periods of memory….or everything all together."

Silence lay thick and heavy over the room. Rogers hands had fallen loosely to his sides, eyes wide with shock. “Wait,” Rogers said slowly. “So, this other scan…,” he trailed off, obviously not able to say it out loud. Banner nodded, confirming his silent query, but Brock needed to hear him say it out loud.

“This second scan belongs to Sergeant James Barnes.”

Silence descended once again upon the room. “So, you’re saying…what? That I was brainwashed?” Brock said in disbelief, unable to keep the chuckle from his voice at the absurdity of it. “Yes,” Banner said simply. “And judging by the amount of scarring, I’d say it happened more than once.”

Brock couldn’t help it. He laughed. He hadn’t been brainwashed. He had just been hit on the head one too many times. This was all completely absurd. A cruel idea for a practical joke on the guy in the handcuffs.

But no one else was laughing.

“I need to make a call,” Rogers stated, stepping swiftly past Brock and out into the hallway as he pulled his cell from his back pocket. Brock’s breath caught in his chest. He was having trouble processing what Banner had said. He couldn’t have been….That would mean….

He couldn’t even trust his own mind anymore. It had been the one thing he could have counted on. The one sanctuary he had left that could never be broken or stolen or tampered with. And yet it had been, again and again and without him ever knowing.

“The fuck,” Brock gasped, struggling to breath properly. His heart pounded in his chest, beating along in time with the pounding in his head. Brock forced a shaky breath, feeling his chest constrict as he sucked air into his lungs. He held it for a count of five and then slowly let it out. He repeated this again and again until his heart beat slowed and he could no longer hear it pounding in his ears.

He slumped back into the chair, feeling very tired. He tuned out the voices of the others until they were just a distant buzzing in his ears. He was snapped back into reality by Stark snapping his fingers impatiently in his face. “Fuck off,” he growled, slapping the hands away.

Stark didn't seem at all put off by it. “This relates to you, asshole,” he snapped. Brock forced himself to focus on Banner, who cleared his throat before continuing. “As I was saying, I have wanted to get a close look at Sergeant Barnes to see what could be learned from the damage his brain sustained. It might be possible to find a treatment to help reverse some of the damage, or at least to better understand how the machine works.”

“Rogers can be a tad over protective in that regard,” Stark interrupted, throwing his two cents into the pile. Rogers stiffened, having just stepped back into the room in time to hear that comment. “Bucky has had people poking and prodding at him for years,” he growled, levelling a heated glare in Brock’s direction. “He doesn’t need to be subjected to more.”

“But now we have the perfect substitute to poke and prod instead,” Stark said with that stupid smirk of his. Brock grimaced. He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “Do I have a choice?” He growled. “Of course,” Banner said, overlapping with Stark’s snorted “No.” Now it was Banner’s turn to glare at Stark.

“It’s this with a chance at leniency on your sentencing or life imprisonment on the Raft,” Rogers stated. “Your choice.” Brock swallowed thickly. That was hardly a choice; sentenced to life on a floating prison or sentenced to life as a lab rat. “You don’t have the authority to make that call,” he said flatly, just buying time to think. He could make assumptions on what that phone call had been about.

He was right. Rogers held up the phone. “That was Hill. She signed off on it.” Brock took a breath. Well, shit. “Your choice,” Rogers said again, in a manner that made Brock feel like he really didn't have a choice at all.

 

 

“Do keep up,” Stark snarked, walking briskly into the elevator. Brock hesitated. He felt Rogers looming behind him and stepped inside Stark had since dismissed the agents that had been in charge of Brock, taking the keys to his cuffs before shooing them away dismissively. Keys which he currently twirled around his fingers as he whistled.

Brock’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair as Stark lead Brock out into of the elevator. He was expecting another cell, or some sort of confinement area. With everything else the Tower had, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine. This…this wasn’t what he expected at all.

The suite sprawled out in front of him, taking up what Brock guessed was almost an entire floor. The kitchen lined the far right wall, two counters serving as breakfast bars, with a large island situated between them. Past that, against the massive slanted ceiling-to-floor windows that looked out over the city was a dining table and four chairs.

Directly across from the elevator, a wide curved staircase lead up to a half loft where Brock assumed the bedroom was. Below it was the bathroom, large plush couches sprawled out across the space with an absolutely massive flatscreen TV mounted on the wall.

“Yeah, for all the amenities of the Tower, I didn’t think to add prison cells,” Stark said mournfully, eyeing Brock’s open-mouthed shock out of the corner of his eye. “Actually Jarvis, remind me to build prison cells during the next renovations.”

“Of course sir,” the AI replied promptly. “Hear that?” Stark said, pointing to the ceiling. “That’s Jarvis. Say hello, Jarvis.”

“Hello Agent Rumlow,” the calm voice said. “Uh…hi,” Brock replied hesitantly.

“Jarvis will be playing parole officer. He sees all and knows all, so don’t think you’ll be able to go sneaking around,” Stark explained. “That elevator will take you to one of two places, the other being the lab. Any questions? No? Perfect. Cap?”

Large hands grabbed his biceps, pulling them back to effectively trap Brock's cuffed hands against his abdomen. He struggled as Stark stepped forward, pulling something from his pocket. “Whoah, what are you—ah!” Brock flinched and struggled against Rogers’ iron grip as Stark pulled down his shirt collar and stabbed something into the base of his neck, just above his shoulder.

“What the fuck?” He snapped as Rogers let him go. He stumbled back, bringing a hand up to his neck, feeling a few drops of blood. “Relax, it’s just a dermal tracker in case you had any ideas about running off,” Stark drawled, pocketing whatever he had stabbed Brock with. He unlocked Brock’s cuffs, yanking them off non too gently. Brock winced, gently chaffing at his wrists.

“Oh and also, it has a small explosive charge that will blow your carotid artery at a word to Jarvis.” Stark said matter of factly. Brock paled. “The fuck is wrong with you?” He cried, clamping a hand to his neck.

Stark said nothing, just pulled a nasty smile before stalking back into the elevator. Rogers gave him a last look, eyes unreadable before following the billionaire. “You told me it was just a tracker!” He heard the blonde hiss as the doors closed.

Brock gasped a breath as soon as the elevator doors closed, feeling his knees go weak. He felt like he was going to be sick. He stumbled into the bathroom, leaning heavily on the counter for support. He took another deep breath and then another. He squeezed his eyes against the pounding in his skull. Eventually his heartbeat slowed and he stopped feeling like he was going to puke.

He splashed cold water on his face, slicking his hair back. He glanced in the mirror, taking in his reflection. He pulled down the collar of his shirt and stared at the small puncture mark on his neck, the skin around it already starting to bruise. He hadn't signed up for this shit.

He felt so tired. He couldn’t even process anything anymore. He was numb and his head hurt like a mother fucker. He rummaged around until he found a bottle of ibuprofen. He popped two and stepped out into the suite.

He turned, really taking in the place. He wandered over to the large slated windows, taking in the city. The sun was now beginning to set, throwing warm light sparkling off the buildings.

Brock just shook his head and trudged upstairs. He rolled his eyes at the massive king sized bed, surrounded on three sides by floor-to-ceiling windows. He could tell by the tint that they were had been treated to only be one way but that wasn’t what worried him. He frowned, seeing that there were no curtains on any of them.

“If I may, sir.” Brock jumped at the calm British voice. “The remote on the side table.” Brock walked over, picking up a small black remote with a few buttons. “Top left, sir.” Brock complied, managing not to jump as a whirring sound echoed through the room and metal shutters slowly descended down every window.

“Jesus,” Brock muttered. “Jarvis, sir, but I can understand the confusion.” Brock snorted at the mild sarcasm that laced the voice. “What…what exactly are you?” Brock asked, honestly curious. “I am a multifunctional, highly advanced user interface program,” Jarvis said politely, with what Brock would call a touch of pride. “Huh,” was all Brock could say to that. “You know you don’t have to call me sir.”

“I am programmed with the personality traits of my predecessor to be unfailingly polite, regardless of my personal loathing towards ones person.” Brock couldn’t help but smirk at the thinly veiled hostility in the AI’s voice. “I see,” he said with a chuckle.

“I should warn you,” Jarvis continued. “If you try to bring harm to Mr. Stark or any of the other occupants of this tower, I will not hesitate to see that you come to a very unpleasant and very painful end. Sir.”

“Understood,” Brock swallowed nervously, unable to keep his hand from straying to the wound on his neck. He stripped off the prison shirt, a little self conscious knowing that a computer intelligence who just threatened his life was watching every move he made.

He tossed the uniform in the corner and crawled into bed, feeling very small amongst the mass of covers and pillows. Everything else could wait until tomorrow because Brock couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is my fairy dust!!


	3. These Ghosts of Old Memories

 Brock woke with a start, shivering. His dreams had been violent and blood-splattered but now that he was awake they were slipping away like mist on the water. “Good morning, Agent Rumlow.” The calm British voice lilted through the room.

“Morning…ah,” Brock scrambled at his memory for the AI’s name. “Jarvis sir,” was the curt reply. “Right. Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ve been asked to inform you that Dr. Banner has requested your presence in the lab within the hour.”

“Mkay” Brock mumbled, rolling over to look at the clock. Nine thirty. Brock blinked. He could barely remember the last time he had slept more than six hours, let alone over twelve. He had slept straight through the night. No dreams, no nightmares. Nothing to disturb him.

Brock swung his feet out under the the covers. He showered quickly, revealing at the massive tub and rain style shower. He did his best to not focus on the small bruised circle on his shoulder. He tugged his boxers back on and stepped out of the bathroom, towelling his hair dry. That was when he realized than he had nothing to wear beyond the rumpled prison shirt that was currently in a heap near the top of the stairs.

“May I suggest you check the elevator, sir?” Jarvis said politely. Brock stumbled down the stairs to have the elevator open in front of his nose. Inside was…nothing. “Uh,” Brock was confused. “My apologies, sir,” Jarvis commented. “There seemed to have been some confusion and it has been sent to the other elevator. Allow me to guide you there.”

 

 

  
James woke slowly as the light in his room gently increased. He blinked, confused. “Good morning, Mr. Barnes,” Jarvis said brightly. “I took the liberty of opening your blinds. Your therapist will be arriving in fifteen minutes.”

“What time is it?” James asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Quarter to ten sir,” Jarvis replied. “That’s…not right,” James said hesitantly. “I…it was barely midnight.”

“Yes sir,” Jarvis said patiently. “I slept the whole night?” James whispered in disbelief. “Yes sir,” Jarvis said once again. “I…,” James sat up, having trouble processing that he’d just slept the whole freaking night. He couldn’t remember the last time he did that.

There was a soft knock at the door. “Hey Buck?” Steve called softly through the door. “Yeah, gimme a minute,” he called out, hoisting himself from bed. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a soft hoody, taking a minute to finger comb his tangled hair. Steve had offered more than once to cut it, but James refused each time. Something about looking the way he had before, like in the pictures, unnerved him.

He padded barefoot down the hall and into the kitchen, finding Steve perched at the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee. “Hey,” James murmured, moving to pour himself a cup. “Get enough sleep?” Steve asked innocently enough but James bristled all the same. He took a calming breath, stirring in enough sugar into his coffee to send a hummingbird into a diabetic coma. He knew Steve meant well. He always meant well.

“I actually slept the night,” he said casually. He turned to see Steve’s eyes bright and happy. “That’s great. That’s really great,” he said. James took a sip, casting his eyes down. Every inch of progress made Steve bubble up with joy. Every step backwards had him looking like a kicked puppy, for all he would try to hide it and be supportive. James settled for pulling a smile and taking another sip of coffee.

 

 

Ten minutes later and they were stepping into the elevator, avoiding the large cardboard box situated in the middle of the elevator. This was the main elevator and it wasn’t odd when Tony had boxes of equipment and other odds and ends stacked into it.

“Twenty-third floor please, Jarvis,” Steve asked politely. “Of course, sir,” Jarvis said as the doors closed. It was easier for the therapist just to come to the Tower, to avoid any media attention. Stark had arranged it all, taking care of the expenses. “If you don’t mind, sirs, we’ll make a brief stop on the labs level. If you could put that box in the hallway, it would be most appreciated.”

“Of course,” Steve said amiably. The elevator shuddered to a halt, the doors opening with a ding. At the same time the elevator across the hall opened and a very shirtless man stepped out.

James frowned, eyes flicking up the navy blue scrub pants, across the well muscled and scarred torso, up to the very familiar looking face. Thick dark hair swept down above equally dark eyes. Eyes that were wide with shock as they stared back at him across the hallway.

Steve cursed under his breath, kicking the box out into the hallway. “Doors, Jarvis,” he growled but James didn’t pay any mind. He just kept staring at the man across the hallway, who stared back at him until the doors closed.

“Jarvis,” Steve growled. “I must apologize sir,” the AI said, sounding guilty. “I miscalculated the time it would take Agent Rumlow to reach the lab floor in conjunction to—,”

“I get it. It’s fine,” Steve interrupted with a sigh, looking tired. “It won’t happen again sir,” Jarvis promised, chagrined. James could see Steve turning to him with a guilty look. “You okay?” He asked hesitantly.

“Who was that?” James asked, wracking his messed up brain to place the man’s face. He knew him and for some reason it felt important to remember. Like somehow the man was a missing link to something. James didn’t really know how to feel but he knew he needed answers. “No one important,” Steve muttered, trying to deflect. James frowned, turning to face Steve.

“But I knew him.”

Steve sighed, closing his eyes. James watched Steve swallow, turning pain-filled eyes to meet his. “He’s a HYDRA agent,” Steve said quietly. “He was one of your handlers.”

James blinked as a memory flooded back behind his eyelids. He squeezed his eyes shut with a grimace as he tasted blood and…chocolate? That didn’t make any sense. He grimaced as a dull ache crept up the back of his skull. He remembered blood and soap spiralling down the drain and someone else’s hands scrubbing through his hair.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice broke through and he jumped, startled out of his own mind. He glanced up into worried blue eyes. “I’m fine,” he said automatically. “I promise I won’t let him near you,” Steve said fervently. “I won’t let him hurt you again.”

“Melodramatic much, Stevie?” He muttered, forcing a smile. Relief washed through those blue eyes and Steve gently squeezed his shoulder before letting him go. James hadn’t even felt him touch him. The elevator had stopped sometime during James’ minor panic attack and it whirred to life again as they continued their journey.

“Why, uh…why is he here?” James asked as nonchalantly as possible. Steve sighed again. He did that a lot these days. “He’s…it turns out that he had his memory wiped the same way you did. Bruce was hoping that by learning more from him, he might be able to help you.”

“Ah,” James said, swallowing thickly. “Buck?” Steve asked, worried. “I’m fine,” James said again on reflex. He forced another smile to placate Steve, but inside he felt sick. HYDRA agent or not, James wouldn’t wish that chair on anyone.

 

 

 

  
Brock stepped out, startled to find the elevator in front of him open. There he was, just standing there. Brock hadn’t seen him since he and Jack had geared him up for the final assault on the Triskelion six months ago.

He stared in open mouthed shock as the soldier stared back at him, equally startled. He looked…good. His hair was still long and slightly tangled. Dark circles bruised under his eyes but Brock could see he had lost that blank thousand yard stare. They were clear and focus as they stared in shock across the hallway. What really shocked Brock though, was the spark of recognition reflected in the kid’s pale blue eyes.

Brock jumped as Rogers kicked the box into the hallway with a curse and the elevator doors closed, cutting James off from view. Brock shook himself, picking up the box and stepping back into the elevator. He shrugged off the chill that swept through him as the elevator whisked him back up to his five star cell.

He dug through the box as his mind whirled. Of course it made sense for the kid to be here. It was where Rogers was. After he went awol after the failure of Project Insight, it made sense that this was where he would go.

He shook his head, clearing the cobwebs as his Nonna would say. He pulled on jeans and a long sleeved shirt, shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers. He also found a shaving kit and deodorant in the box and availed himself of both. He just had time to eat, finding a banana and a box of pop tarts in the cupboard, before the AI’s voice chimed through the room again. “Mr. Banner requests your presence in the lab, sir.”

Brock sighed, tossing the peel in the garbage. Might as well get this over with.

 

  
Brock stepped cautiously into the lab Jarvis directed him to. He eyed all the medical equipment and various machines a little dubiously as he made his way across to where Banner was perched on a stool, glasses low on his nose.

“Ah, Agent Rumlow, welcome,” Banner said politely, waving a hand towards a nearby stool. Brock took a seat, glancing around. “So, what exactly are you hoping to accomplish here, Doc?”

“Well, there really is very little we know about what was done to you and Sergeant Barnes. My hope is that I can figure out a treatment. Or if not, at least understand.” Brock nodded. Made sense to him, even if he was going to be the guinea pig in the equation.

“First, let’s get one things straight,” the man shifted so he was facing Brock square on. “However I feel about you is irrelevant and will not affect my work. I will not cause you any undue pain or discomfort. I swore an oath. However,” he said, his eyes growing cold. Brock could have sworn there was a hint of green reflecting in the man’s dark eyes. “If you try anything or try to hurt any of those I call my friend, the Other Guy will crush you like a flea.”

Brock shifted nervously. He was more than aware of the doctor’s…other side. Between that and the explosive charge in his neck, he wasn’t about to risk doing anything foolish. Besides, he had never been one of the true believers. HYDRA paid well and at the end of the day, that was good enough for him. He wasn’t about to risk his neck for their cause any more than he had to. He nodded stiffly. “Good. Now this is something I find odd,” Banner said, tapping a finger against his lip. Brock blinked at the sudden switch of topic.

“In Barnes’ case the longer he goes without a wipe, the more he begins to regain his memories. His synaptic pathways find other ways to connect or repair. They come back slowly or in flashes and often painfully but they do come back. How they’ve managed to suppress your memories more permanently…it’s one of the many things I’d like to find out.” Brock swallowed as Banner started typing away at the computer. “Now, I’d like to start with taking some blood—,”

“They gave me pills,” Brock interrupted, staring down at his hands. He felt Banner’s eyes shift to him, going very still. “They, uh, they said it would help but it really only gave me headaches. I would have stopped taking them if it wasn’t for J—,” Brock cut himself off, swallowing his words. He glanced up to see Banner watching him intently. “If it wasn’t for the doctors pushing them on me,” he lied smoothly. “Do you know what they were?” Banner asked. “Or what they were called?” Brock shook his head. Banner pondered this, tapping at his lip.

This allowed Brock’s mind to wander. Had Jack known? Had he been pushing the pills on Brock because he had been ordered to, hiding his ulterior motives behind teasing smiles and concern. Did this mean that every time Jack reminded him of something he’d forgotten, he was lying? And hadn’t Banner said it had been done multiple times? What had they wanted him to forget?

“Agent Rumlow? Agent Rumlow!” Brock was shaken from his musings by the doctor’s voice. He jumped, glancing up at the calm man. “Sorry, what?” Banner’s brow crinkled in concern but he didn’t inquire. For that Brock was grateful. “I said I’d like to take some blood.”

“Yeah, sure,” Brock said, rolling up his sleeve as Banner pulled up the necessary equipment from a nearby drawer.

 

 

James rubbed a hand over his eyes as the elevator doors opened onto his and Steve’s floor. He was exhausted. Therapy always took a tole on him. Matt was great. He was patient and calm. He explained things in simple terms, helped James untangle the mess that was in his head.

But it was exhausting, recalling the past. All of his true memories were mostly still the ones when he was the Winter Soldier, which were none too pleasant. Matt never batted an eye, saying that traumatic memories were often easier to recall than the pleasant ones and to give it time.

All James ever did was give it time. He gave time and energy and nothing got better. He was just so tired. He stumbled into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water. Steve was out on a mission with Natasha and Clint and wouldn't be back until later that evening so he had the place to himself.

He watched TV for a bit, but couldn’t focus on anything so he went down to the gym and beat the shit out of the hanging bag until he was drenched with sweat and then he got on the treadmill and ran until he couldn't get his breath back.

That took a really long time and afterwards he was bone tired and trembling. He took a long shower, turning it as hot as it could go. The bathroom filled with steam so thick James could barely see. By the time he dried off and changed into sweats and a t-shirt it was late in the evening. He grabbed something quick to eat and then tumbled into bed. This was how he survived these days. He worked himself to exhaustion and then passed out. It was how he tried to keep the nightmares at bay. Sometimes it worked. Most nights it didn’t.

 

 

  
_He was freezing. He couldn’t stop shivering, but this time it was a different type of cold. The kind of cold that made his teeth chatter. Made his muscles tremble. It wasn’t real cold. It was shock, settling into his bones as he lay on the dirty floor._

_His was naked. His wrists and ankles were bound tight with rough rope, the skin underneath chaffed and bleeding. His mouth tasted metallic._

_Everything hurt. It hurt to breathe, telling him he had at least one broken rib. Probably more. He couldn't see out of his right eye and his left shoulder was on fire. He had burns on his chest that were weeping puss. Infection was beginning to set in._

_He wouldn't last much longer if they kept this up._

_Footsteps echoed in the hall and he groaned, clenching his eyes shut. Not again. It was too soon. He just wanted to sleep. Please just let him sleep. He was so tired._

_Panic clawed at his throat as the footsteps got louder, accompanied now with harsh voices speaking a language he didn’t understand._

_The door burst open and everything shattered._

 

 

  
James wrenched himself from the sweat-soaked covers with a strangled cry, feeling tears pricking at his eyes. He heaved deep breaths that were more like gasps as panic gripped his chest. That panic tripled as he heard footsteps echoing beyond his room and he had to remind himself that he was awake.

Steve stepped cautiously into the room, hair tousled and dressed for bed. His worried eyes alighted on James tangled in the bedsheets. “You’re okay, Bucky,” he said gently, taking a step into the room slowly. “It was just a dream.” This was a dance that they had rehearsed many times, but tonight was different.

“It wasn’t my dream,” James said under his breath, panicked eyes meeting Steve’s. “What was that?” Steve asked, perching on the edge of the bed. “You had a nightmare, Buck.”

“But it wasn’t mine,” James said more clearly, burying a hand in his hair. “It wasn’t mine. I don’t know that place. It wasn’t my memory.” Steve made a soothing sound, carefully placing a calming hand on James’ ankle. “Hey, easy. You just remembered something new. That’s all.”

“No, no,” James said, shaking his head. He pinched up to the bridge of the nose. He was starting to get a headache. “It doesn’t make any sense. I was never…I didn’t…That never happened! I know it didn’t."

“Okay, well maybe it was just a good old fashioned nightmare, Buck.” Steve soothed, not really sounding convinced. He probably thought that James had remembered something bad and didn’t know how to handle it. “It’s okay. Whatever it was, it’s over now. You’re here. You’re safe.” James nodded, not completely believing him. The dream had felt wrong and now the lingering memories of it felt alien in his mind. Like they didn’t belong there.

He felt Steve squeeze his ankle gently, pulling a small smile. “You wanna watch a movie or something?” Steve offered, obviously trying to distract him but also knowing that the last thing James wanted to do now was to go back to sleep. This was part of the dance too. They often had late night or early morning movie sessions due to James’ nightmares.  
  
“Movie sounds good,” James muttered. “Okay, I’ll go cue something up. Hot chocolate?” James felt a smile tugging at his lips. Steve was just so….Steve. “Sure,” he said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Okay,” Steve said with a smile, giving his ankle another squeeze before leaving James alone.

He ran a hand through his hair, gripping it hard. The pain grounded him, clearing his head. It helped him remember he was awake. That was a dangerous slope and he knew it. He thought Matt suspected as much, but it hadn’t come up in their sessions yet. He shook his head, trying to shake the clinging nightmare away.

“But it wasn’t my dream,” James whispered to himself, but no longer completely convinced.

 

 

 

Seven floors away Brock’s eyes flew open as his breath caught in his throat. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, catching the outline of stairs and the closet door. He felt himself lying in a soft bed, covered with a warm sheet. He took a choked breath, and then another as he slowly forced his muscles to relax.

“Are you well, Agent Rumlow?” Jarvis asked politely. “I’m fine,” Brock said, sitting up with a wince. “Because I am detecting elevated heart rate and body temperature, coupled with—,”

“I said I’m fine,” Brock snapped. “It was just a dream,” he added quietly, more to convince himself than the AI. “As you say, sir,” Jarvis said, almost hesitantly before going quiet. Brock sighed, swinging his legs out from under the covers. There was no way he was gonna get any more sleep tonight.

He checked the clock. Four in the morning. He sighed. It could be worse. He stumbled down into the kitchen and turned the kettle on. He rummaged through the cupboards, remembering having seen that box of pop tarts in there earlier. He pulled the box out and opened it. Nothing like sugar therapy to chase away bad memories.

He frowned as he pulled out a couple packages. He could have sworn it had been a full box that morning but a few were already missing. The kettle whistled shrilly, startling him. He reached for the kettle, seeing his hand trembling. He clenched it tight, taking a breath. Maybe sugar wasn’t the best thing right now.

He knew the only thing that would properly calm him down after that particular nightmare, but it might be tricky under the circumstances. “Hey Jarvis,” Brock asked hesitantly. “Yes, Agent Rumlow?” The AI replied promptly. “Is there…uh, is there a gym I can use?” There was a pause. “I’ll see what can be arranged, sir,” Jarvis replied. Brock licked his lips nervously, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Is it something that can be arranged…now?” He really needed to hit something. Another pause, this one a little longer. Brock swallowed. “Please?”

For a moment he thought that Jarvis was just ignoring him now but then the elevators smoothly slide open. The doors closed and the floor vibrated a little under his feet. Eventually the doors opened again into a wide open hallway.

“Two doors down on your left, sir,” Jarvis said politely. “And the floor is completely sealed, beyond this elevator which is under my control.”

“Thanks,” Brock said quietly as he stepped out of the elevator. His eyes widened in appreciation of the well equipped gym, eyes alighting almost hungrily on the heavy bag hanging in the corner.

He found a pair of Muay Thai grappling gloves in a nearby locker and pulled them on with practised ease. He ran through a few warm up drills, rolling his shoulders and focusing into his body. He started slow, knowing from experience he'd just hurt himself if he went at it full bore.

He ran through drills after drills, slowly becoming more intricate and technical. He threw in a couple knees and then a few kicks, upping the difficulty every time. Eventually his shirt was soaked with sweat and his hair stuck to his forehead. He gasped for breath, finishing with a spinning hook kick that had the bag swinging haphazardly.

He checked the clock that hung about the squat rack. Quarter after six. The sun was starting to leak above the horizon, spilling red and orange light across the sleepy city. He took a few gasping breaths as he tugged the gloves off with trembling fingers. Tremors shivered through his muscles and he knew he had pushed himself to the edge. Maybe even a little too far as he felt a twinge in his right shoulder.

He made his way back to the elevator, which opened for him as he stepped inside. He managed to stay awake through a quick shower. As he stepped out of the bathroom he was momentarily blinded. The early morning sun was now cresting the horizon, sending bright rays bouncing and sparkling off the surroundings buildings. He wandered over to the windows, blinking as his eyes struggled to adjust.

He stood there for a long time, just staring out over the city as the sun fully emerged. The light dimmed as the sun disappeared behind a skyscraper and he blinked again, sunspots dancing in front of his eyes. This was the nice thing about being on a soldiers sleep schedule. He yawned. Of course it was always nicer after a full nights sleep. Not that Brock really knew what that felt like anymore.

 

 


	4. Ice In My Veins and A Song On My Tongue

 

Brock trudged down to the lab, munching on an apple. It had been three weeks since he had been brought to the Tower and had fallen into an almost comfortable, if boring routine. Lab, eat, sleep, gym, mix and repeat. He hadn't seen the Asset since that encounter in the elevators. He hadn't seen anyone actually beyond Banner. He wasn't sure if he was relieved about that or not.

“Hey Doc,” he said through a mouthful as he tossed the apple core in the garbage. “Agent Rumlow,” Banner said distractedly, not looking up from the holoscreen. “Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment, just need to…finish…,” Brock smirked as Banner trailed off, losing the conversation as he focused on what was in front of him.

Brock hooked a nearby chair with his ankle, rolling it over and collapsing into it. He twiddled his thumbs while the Doc finished whatever he was working on. “I wanted to start on some brain mapping if that's alright,” Banner said briskly. “Follow me,” he said, standing.

He lead Brock out of the main lab and into a smaller room which held a large MRI looking scanner. “Ok, remove any metal please,” Banner instructed as he started prepping everything. He motioned for Brock to lie down lay down in the scanner. Brock hopped up, allowing Banner to position his head where he wanted it on the foam block. He connected all sorts of leads, finally gently tossing a blanket over Brock's legs. “This’ll take a bit,” he said in response to Brock’s raised eyebrows. “It's fine if you fall asleep. It won't effect the results. Just try to stay still.”

Brock took a breath as Banner stepped out into the little observation room. “Alright, here we go,” Banner’s voice crackled through the intercom. “Any music requests?”  
  
“Anything but country,” Brock said with a smile. A mechanical whir echoed through the room as the scanner slide up and over Brock’s head. Notes of a folkish soul style song drifted through the room. It was very soothing and Brock soon found himself drifting off. Against his better judgement, he closed his eyes.

 

  
_The ice was back, clawing its way through his chest with a vengeance. It crept down his arms and legs, numbing his fingers to the point where he could barely bend them. He tried to move but his legs were locked into place._

_The cold crept up his throats and paralyzed his vocal corded before he had a chance to scream. It clawed its way up the inside of his face. Ice crystallized over his eyes and his vision clouded._

_He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe._

 

 

“Rumlow!” He woke to his name crackling sharply through the intercom. He flailed uncoordinatedly, scared by the unfamiliar surroundings. He heard his named called again and blinked, finally focusing on where he was.

He was in the lab. He could see Banner staring at him worriedly through the glass of the observation room. He heaved a huge breath, willing himself to stop trembling. It didn't work. The ice was still there. He couldn't stop shivering. His left arm was completely numb from shoulder to fingertips. His hands were shaking so much he couldn't remove the leads and ended up just tangling them even more.

The door slide open and Banner rushed to his side. “Stop, stop,” he said sharply. “You're making it worse.” He moved to take the leads from Brock’s head, flinching as his hands came into contact with Brock’s. “Jesus, you're freezing. What happened?”

Brock couldn't answer. His teeth were chattering too much. His mind felt numb, too. Everything was slow and confusing and too bright. He sat there, shivering as Banner unhooked him and yanked the blanket back from his legs. “Okay, up you get,” he said, keeping an arm on Brock’s bicep as he got down from the scanner.

As soon as Brock put weight on his legs, he felt his knees buckle. Much to his embarrassment, he collapsed into Banner’s arms. His legs were just as numb as the rest of him, pins and needles tingling painfully. “Whoah, easy,” Banner soothed, holding Brock until he got his legs underneath himself again. “Think you can walk?” Banner asked gently. Brock nodded, not trusting his voice. “Easy does it,” Banner said encouragingly as he pulled Brock's arm over his shoulders and helped him shuffle from the room. He deposited Brock on a couch and disappeared, tossing a “Stay there,” over his shoulder as he went.

Brock closed his eyes tight, willing the lingering dream away. It had been a long time since the dream had been this bad, to the point where he was numb and shivering when he woke up. He thought he had grown out of it. He clenched and unclenched his left fist, trying to shake off the numb feeling. Rapid footsteps announced Banner’s return before a thick fuzzy blanket was tossed over him and a mug of steaming coffee pushed into his numb hands. He held it tight, winching as the heat burned his hands. At Banner’s urging he took a sip, feeling the hot liquid begin to melt away the last remnants of lingering ice.

Banner took a seat on a chair in front of him as Brock finally stopped shivering. By the time he finished the coffee, he was starting to overheat under the thick blanket. He shoved it aside, setting the mug down. He scrubbed a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. He could feel Banner staring at him.

“Wanna tell me what just happened?” Banner asked gently. Brock shifted nervously. “Not really,” he deflected. He grimaced as Banner raised his eyebrows. “Sorry if I ruined the scan,” he said gruffly, trying to distract him. “We’ll have to redo it,” Banner said slowly. “But I’d rather know what caused such a reaction so it won’t happen again.”

Brock winced. So much for a distraction. “I won’t fall asleep next time,” he said. “It’s that simple?” Banner pressed. “It’s that simple,” Brock said with finality, trying to shut the conversation down before it got any further. “Nightmare?” Banner asked softly. Brock hesitated, glancing at the doctor. The knowing look in the man’s eyes told Brock he wouldn’t be able to get away with lying. He shrugged.

“Recurring?” Brock swallowed and just shrugged again. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Banner said, leaning back in the chair. “Will that be all for today, Doc?” Brock asked, avoiding eye contact. “You ever talk to someone about it?” Banner asked a little hesitantly, ignoring Brock question. “It’s nothing,” Brock muttered.

“Didn’t look like nothing,” Banner pressed again, apparently refusing to be dissuaded. “Well it is,” Brock snapped angrily. “It’s just a stupid dream. I’ve had it since I was a kid. And why do you give a shit anyways?” He kept his eyes on his hands, so he missed the way Banner’s eyes grew thoughtful, almost calculating. “What do you dream about?” The man asked asked.

“Ice,” Brock let slip before he could stop himself. He glowered. “Happy now? Are we done here?” He said through gritted teeth. Banner sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re done for today, however—,” Brock was on his feet and halfway across the lab before Banner could say anything else.

 

 

He stormed back up to the suite, raiding the cupboards until he found what he was looking for. He didn’t even bother with a glass. He just tossed the cap in the sink and took a long pull of the tequila. The alcohol burned on the way down, making his eyes water. He swallowed, taking another swig before digging out the pop tarts. He frowned. The open box had only one left. It had been half full just the night before.

 _Clunk._ Brock glanced sharply up at the ceiling. If he strained he could just hear a quiet shuffling noise coming from directly above him. Brock dismissed the notion of mice as soon as it entered his mind. There was no way the Tower had mice. Which was less reassuring than Brock hoped because that meant there was someone or something sneaking around.

He glanced down at the pop tarts again, his earlier feelings about the day forgotten in leu of this new mystery. He knew there had been more last night. He set the tequila down, inspecting the ceilings. His eyes narrowed as he spied the air intact vent above the stove.

He hoisted himself onto the kitchen counter, cautiously standing and reaching up to the vent. “Agent Rumlow, what are you doing?” Jarvis’ voice spoke calmly, yet demandingly. “Looking for a rat,” Brock muttered as the vent fell open easily under his hand.

“Agent Rumlow, I must ask you to cease this activity,” Jarvis said sternly. “Relax J,” Brock grumbled as he gripped the corner of the vent. “I’m not going anywhere.” He carefully pulled himself up into a chin-up position. He found himself looking down a ventilation shaft, more than wide enough that Brock could easily crawl through them.

“ Agent Rumlow,” Jarvis said again as Brock carefully lowered himself back onto the kitchen counter. “Easy Hal,” he muttered as he closed the vent and hopped back off the counter. “You let anyone sneak in here?”

“I do not know what you speak of. I have allowed no one else onto this floor,” Jarvis said loftily and then refused to say another word. “Huh,” was all Brock in response to that.

 

 

  
Brock avoided the lab for as long as he could, staying in the suite except for late night trips to the gym. It ended up being almost a week before Jarvis chimed in one afternoon as he was curled up on the couch with a book in his hand. He had never been much of a reader. When he and Jack had got an apartment together, two young naive sleeper agents assigned to the same STRIKE team, he had gawked at the amount of books the younger man and carried in. Now he wished he had indulged more. It was a great way to just escape.

“Dr. Banner has requested your presence in the lab, Agent Rumlow.” Brock sighed, dog-earing the corner of the page he was on. He still hadn’t managed to convince the AI to stop calling him _‘Agent’_. It was almost as if the program could tell that it bothered him and continued to do it just to annoy him. “Now?” He asked. “Now sir,” Jarvis said with finality. Brock sighed again, setting his book aside for later. He made his way slowly downstairs, dragging his feet only a little.

“Ah Agent Rumlow, good,” Banner said, glancing up briefly from his work. “Doc,” he said cautiously, perching on a nearby stool. “I would like to redo the scans, if that’s alright with you.” Brock nodded. He was expecting it. “And…,” Banner hesitated before added. “I think I owe you an apology.” Brock’s eyebrows raised in surprise. He hadn’t been expecting that.

“It wasn’t my place to ask such invasive questions before and I’m sorry.” Brock blinked. The man actually looked a little guilty. “ ’s all good, Doc,” Brock said, shrugging off the apology. He was more than a little surprised the man even offered one. “Just drop the _‘Agent’_ and we’ll call it even.” Banner nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips as he beckoning Brock to follow. Brock did, feeling a little bemused. Was he actually getting along with the man?

 

 

 

  
James was bored.

He was bored a lot these days, in between the crippling doubt and painful flashbacks. One could only watch so much TV and even he wasn’t going to spend all day every day at the gym. He didn’t have anyone to spar with, not that Steve would allow it anyways. He could accidentally hurt someone. Reading made his head hurt and he wasn’t allowed firearms. Steve had danced around the reasons why and never gave him a clear answer but James knew. He was too much of a liability.

He still didn’t know the rest of the team beyond Steve and Natasha well enough to seek them out on his own. So with both of the aforementioned out of town on SHIELD business, he was alone. And bored.

“If I may make a suggestion, Mr. Barnes?” James sighed. “What’s up, J?” The answer came, not in words, but with the elevator doors at the other end of the large living room opening with a ding. “You gonna tell me what this is about?” He drawled as he stepped inside and the elevator began its descent. “You know I hate surprises.”

The doors opened without any further explanations from Jarvis. James stepped out, looking around curiously. He had never been on this floor before. A long hallway stretched out in front of him, doors scattered along either side. “Three doors down on your right, sir,” Jarvis said politely. James shook his head, ambling down the hallway to the door Jarvis pointed out. He opened the door and stopped in his tracks.

The room was spacious and airy. Warm wood floors and the Tower’s signature floor-to-ceiling windows made the room glow. A matched couch and love-seat was tucked into one corner along with a coffee table and a low bookcase filled with music books. None of this was what drew James’ attention.

His gaze was stuck on the baby grand piano that sat in the middle of the room.

He ran his fingers along the smooth black wood and blinked, realizing he had crossed the room without realizing it. “Jarvis?” He asked quietly. “Captain Rogers mentioned to Dr. Kenning that you used to play,” the AI replied. “The doctor suggested it might be therapeutic.”

“Matt said that?” James murmured as he lifted the cover with shaky hands, revealing the white and black ivory keys. “But I don’t remember how,” he said softly, looking mournfully down at the beautiful instrument.

“Dr. Kenning said to tell you that muscle memory is a powerful thing. That you're body might remember even if your mind doesn’t.”

“I…,” James faltered. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Perhaps you could start by sitting down, sir,” Jarvis suggested. James did, swallowing thickly. He set his right hand carefully down on the keys, feeling the smooth ivory under his fingertips. He kept the left limp in his lap. He didn’t want to damage something so beautiful with something so destructive and stained. He licked his lips nervously and gently pressed his index finger down.

A single clear note rung through the room, slowly dwindling away until it faded completely. He felt himself flush. Somehow he was expecting something more dramatic to happen. As it was, he was feeling rather foolish. He played another, and then another. He ran a slow scale, the keys feeling strangely comfortable under his hand. A melody formed in his mind. His fingers followed it and suddenly it wasn’t just random notes. It was music that filled the small room. It was shaky and he stumbled more than once, but his hand slowly grew stronger and the melody grew steadier.

He got to what a small part in the back of his mind told him was the end of the song and began again, allowing the music to flow. He fell into a sort of trance, getting lost in the sweet melody. He wasn’t sure how many times he recycled the song but suddenly he heard other notes weave themselves in. They fit together perfectly, intertwining together sweetly.

He came back to himself with a start, seeing a muted silver hand having joined the flesh and blood one without his knowledge or prompting. He yanked the hand away, relieved to see the keys unblemished underneath. Even if he hadn’t damaged it, he had dirtied it just by touching it with the thing that now substituted for his left arm. He pushed away from the piano, nearly tipping the bench over in his haste.

“Are you quite well, Mr. Barnes?” Jarvis asked in concern. “I’m fine,” he replied automatically. It was like a reflex now, the instant reply tailored to mask the cracks. No one ever questioned it further. Natasha and Matt would have a knowing look but never called him out on it. Steve always accepted it without contest, even if the worry didn’t leave his eyes. 

He stayed just long enough to carefully lower the cover back over the keys, with only his right hand, before fleeing back to the elevator.

 

 

  
“All done,” Banner said through the intercom as the scanner retracted and Brock sat up. He slipped the leads attached to him and made his way out and around to the observation room where Banner was. “It will take me a while to go over the results. That’s all for today,” Banner said distractedly.

Brock had gotten to know the man well enough that he knew he wouldn't get anything else out of the man until he needed him again. He went to take himself out. “What was that song you were humming?” Banner asked just as Brock got to the door. “What?” Brock asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

“You were humming,” Banner said, looking at him with a calculating gaze. “For the better part of the scan.” Brock frowned, startled. He supposed he had been. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, wracking his brain to try and place the melody. He shrugged, giving up trying. “It just popped in my head.”

“It’s lovely,” Banner said casually, almost too casually. “What’s it called?”

“Moonlight Becomes You,” Brock said softly, then blinked. Where had that come from? He must have looked startled, because Banner’s eyes sharpened as he looked Brock over like he was trying to figure out a puzzle or something. “Anything else, Doc?” He asked, scrambling to regain his composure. “No, I have everything I need for now,” Banner said, that calculating look not leaving his eyes. “Right,” Brock said, more than puzzled by the conversation. He mentally shrugged, pushing it aside as he made his way back to his floor.

 

Bruce watched the dark haired man’s retreating back until he couldn’t see him anymore. He waited long enough to know Rumlow was out of earshot before pulling up a browser. Eventually he found what he was looking for.

Gentle notes of music filled the room as he listened to _Moonlight Becomes You_ , written by Jimmy Van Heusen in nineteen forty-two. He leaned back, tapping a finger against his lip as he pondered the information he had found and what it might mean.

 

 

 

 

 

  
It was thankfully just insomnia and not another nightmare that drove Brock down to the kitchen in the early hours of the morning. He put the kettle on and dug into the cupboard, hands searching for that box of pop tarts. He had always had an incredible sweet tooth and in the late hours of the night it was difficult to resist the temptation, especially given the circumstances.

He grabbed the box, feeling it lighter than it should be. Upon closer inspection, he found it to be empty. “What the…,” he said, baffled by the mystery. A quiet shuffling noise scrapped through the ceiling and Brock’s face clouded in anger.

“Oh no, you don’t. Not this time,” he muttered to himself as he hopped up onto the counter top, carefully, quietly opened the vent. “Agent Rumlow—,” Jarvis began but Brock interrupted him swiftly. “Relax,” he whispered. “I promise I won’t leave the suite.” He hoisted himself up just in time to catch a glimpse of a foot sneaking around the corner of the vent. He heaved himself up further, shifting his weight to wedge himself against the side to free up a hand.

He brought his fist down hard on the floor of the vent, wincing at the loud bang that reverberated down the vent. Apparently the pop tart thief felt the same. There was a second bang, most likely whoever it was hitting their head on the top of the vent, followed by a muffled curse.

“Gotcha, fucker,” Brock growled, purposefully loud enough of them to hear before he lowered himself back down into the kitchen. A scuffling followed him and then pop tart packages rained down on his head. Brock stepped out of the way with a curse, just as a blonde haired man folded himself nimbly out of the vent and dropped down right where Brock had been standing.

“That fucking hurt,” the man snapped, popped two small devices from his ear and digging his fingers around inside. “Serves you right, stealing my fucking pop tarts,” Brock snapped back, recognizing the man. “Your floor is the only one that has them,” Clint Barton grumbled. “Nat banned me from buying them anymore. Long story,” he added at Brock’s raised eyebrows.

“So you've been sneaking through the vents…to steal my pop tarts?” Brock said slowly, trying to figure the man out.

He hadn’t known the man terribly well during their time at SHIELD, having only worked with him a handful of times. Those times, and the few times he had seen him at the Triskelion, Clint Barton had been loud and obnoxious, with a wicked sense of humour. Jack had once described the man as _‘A child with ADHD who someone hopped up on sugar and let loose with a bow and arrow.’_ Brock had always thought that was an apt description.

“Well, when you put it like that…yes,” the man said, bending to scoop up a couple packages and inspecting them for damage. “Why are you here?” Brock demanded. Barton looked at him like Brock had sprouted horns. “Dude. Pop tarts,” he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “We just went over this.”

“No, I mean why are you still here?” Brock clarified. Something in the blonde man’s eyes shifted, so subtly that Brock would have missed it if he hadn’t been looking. When Barton didn't say anything, Brock held his hands out in a helpless gesture. “You’ve got what you want,” Brock continued. “You can go now.”

The archer made no move to leave, just staring at him calculatingly. The mood had changed from something bizarre and ridiculous to something that felt far more serious. “Seriously, man,” Brock exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “What do you—,”

“Did you hurt him?”

That brought Brock up short. “What?” He snapped, feeling completely thrown off balance by the sudden change in the man’s demeanour. “Barnes,” the shorter man clarified. “You ever hurt him?”

“Of course not,” Brock snapped, a cold feeling washing through his veins. “Never?” Barton pressed, eyes sharp. “Not even when his programming would start to slip? Maybe slap him around a little when he didn’t come to heel fast enough?”

Brock paled. That hit a little too close to home. When he first was assigned as the kid’s handler, Pierce had told him that whenever the Asset would get agitated or aggressive he was to talk him down or beat him down, whatever it took to subdue him. Apparently previous handlers would often take the easier second option. Brock always took the first, regardless of how it made some of the other agents think him weak. 

“I never hurt him,” he said quietly, looking Barton square in the eye. “Not directly,” he confessed quietly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Barton asked sharply. Brock swallowed, his throat feeling prickly.

“I never laid a hand on him,” he said softly. “But I never protested when they shoved him in that chair either.”

Silence stretched between the two men. Brock shifted under the archer’s calculating gaze, glancing away and shoving his hands in his pockets. Finally, Barton broke the silence. “From what I hear, it looks like you’ve had some up close and personal experience with that yourself.”

Brock started, glancing up. He was unable to decipher the look in the man’s eyes. “Yeah, looks like,” he said simply, glancing back down at his feet. It got quiet again, save for the crinkling of pop tart wrappers. Then the blonde did the absolute last thing Brock would have expected. He held out one of the silver wrapped desserts.

“Pop tart?”

Brock blinked. He took it silently, unwrapping it as he watched Barton maw down on another. “You don’t toast them either, huh?” Barton said around a mouthful of pop tart as Brock opened his and took a bite. “Fuck no,” Brock snorted. Something about how the icing didn’t melt in the toaster weirded Brock out. He’d rather not think too much about the chemicals he was ingesting when he indulged in this particular treat

Barton nodded appreciatively, shoving the rest of the pop tart in his mouth. He snatched up a couple, tucking them into his pockets as he pulled himself back up and into the vents without another word.

“Hey Barton,” Brock called, taking a step forward. “Yeah?” The man replied, sticking his head back out of the vent to stare down at Brock. Brock faltered, taken back by the oddity of the situation. He wasn’t sure how to word all the feelings swirling around in his head after this whole interaction, so he settled for making it as simple as possible.

“Why? And don't fucking say pop tarts again.” Barton huffed a sigh, his eyes clouding a little. “Because I have up close and personal experience with brainwashing,” the man admitted. “So I like to give people the benefit of the doubt until they prove me otherwise.” He turned his piercing gaze on Brock. “You gonna prove me otherwise?”

Brock swallowed. “I don’t know,” he admitted, because he really didn’t. Barton nodded, seemingly satisfied with Brock’s answer. “Well, you are the only person in this entire freakin’ tower who has pop tarts. And you don’t toast them, so point in your favour.” With that, he pulled himself back into the vent.

Brock scoffed, completely baffled. He was turning away when a blonde haired head popped back through the vent. “Don’t eat all the vanilla ones,” Barton added before disappearing for a second and final time. “What the actual fuck?” Brock muttered under his breath, glancing down at the half eaten pop tart he still had in his hand.

 

  
It become a strange late-night tradition. Brock would stumble into the kitchen, either from a nightmare or just general inability to fall asleep, and before long Barton would be crawling through the vents. They’d make coffee or tea and raid the cupboards of pop tarts which always seemed to mysteriously replenish themselves when Brock was down in the lab.

In the beginning they didn’t talk, and it was a little strange but before long Barton noticed the slick entertainment system and soon they graduated to eating pop tarts while playing video games. It ranged from Mario Kart to first-person shooting games, Barton usually winning in the former and Brock in the latter. Brock lorded it over the blonde for days when he beat Barton at an archery game.

Brock couldn't remember now who had first broken the silence but they soon were holding lengthy conversations on a variety of topics. Brock got a lengthy lecture about the advantages of a bow, although by the end he was not convinced and would gladly stick to his Glocks and Baretts They discussed only safe topics. Brock would ignore the way the man would unconsciously grind his knuckles against his chest and sometimes just zone out, jerking back to the present with wild eyes. In turn, the archer ignored Brock’s bruised knuckles and the deep dark circles under his eyes. It was nice, having someone to talk to who didn't seem to look at him with thinly veiled disgust or clinical efficiency.

Brock wondered how long Barton could keep up the act.

 

  
Brock woke in the middle of the night, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He slipped silently out from under the covers and slunk over to the railing which looked down over the rest of the suite. He relaxed as he saw the familiar shadowy figure sitting on the couch, face illuminated by the flicker of the TV and light glinting off the discarded pop tart wrappers strewn over the coffee table.

Brock grabbed a hoody and padded downstairs. He flopped down on the couch next to Barton, eyeing the man curiously as the archer waded through a horde of zombies. The character on screen slashed and hacked as Barton looked on, his eyes hard and guarded. Brock glanced over, seeing the stiff jaw muscles and tight lines around the man’s mouth and eyes. Brock would get nightmares. They sat in silence, the TV having been muted.

“I haven’t been honest,” Barton said, finally breaking the quiet. “I know,” Brock said, leaning back into the couch and planting his feet on the edge of the coffee table. Clint turned raised eyebrows to Brock. “I figured you weren’t here every second night just for the pop tarts,” Brock drawled. “Or the company.”

“I told him you’d figure it out,” Barton smirked. Brock didn’t need to inquire as to who _he_ was. “He wanted someone other then Jarvis to get a feel for you. Figure out what you’re up to.” Brock snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not up to anything,” he muttered. “I can see that,” Barton said, throwing his hands up in the air as he was torn to bits by zombies. “Aww no, zombies.”

“So why are you still here?” Brock asked quietly as Barton respawned.

“Why’d you join HYDRA?” Barton retorted, dodging the question with his own. Brock took a breath, immediately moving to tell the archer to fuck off. But something stopped him. “I was young and stupid,” he said, surprising himself. He could feel Barton turn to him in equal surprise. He probably hadn’t been expecting Brock to actually answer. To tell the truth, Brock wasn’t really sure why he was. Maybe because he had actually never told anyone why.

“I was fresh from the military,” he shrugged. “HYDRA paid well. Really well. When they approach you….well, let’s just say they have a fantastic sales pitch. All about a reformed HYDRA, built from the ashes of the old to create a new and better world.” His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “They don’t tell you about the shit that goes on behind the scenes.”

“So why stay?” Barton asked, pausing the game and giving Brock his full attention. Brock chuckled humourlessly. “You don’t leave HYDRA. The only way out is to die for the cause.” 

“Then why join at all?” Brock stifled a wince. Barton hadn’t asked the question cruelly. In fact it had sounded quite innocent, like he just wanted to understand. “You had finished your tour,” the archer continued, ignoring or not noticing Brock’s discomfort. “You were out. Why go back to more of the same? Risking your life for a cause that, by the sound of it, you didn’t even believe in?” Brock licked his lips nervously. “It’s…our job…it’s a specialized set of skills. Skills that have no place in a civilized world.” He faltered, struggling to articulate all the twisted and ugly feelings into words.

“You know, you come back stateside and everyone is just going about their business like nothing you ever did mattered or made a difference. Makes you feel obsolete. Makes you wonder what the fuck you were risking your life for. So you haul yourself back to the ass crack of the world, because there you matter. All the while fooling yourself that you’re making a difference. And eventually you don’t give a crap about the bigger picture anymore because you’re just trying to survive and protect the guys on your right and left. And I couldn’t even do that—.”

Brock bit the words off, realizing that he had been ranting and was now straying into dangerous territory. He chanced a glance up, seeing Banner watching him with thoughtful eyes. “Anyways,” Brock said, feeling heat rising on his cheeks. He cleared his throat self consciously. “Do you regret any of it?” Barton asked. Brock stared at his hands but could still feels the blonde archer’s calculating stare.

“I regret a lot of things,” Brock said softly. Silence stretched between the two men. Brock refused to break it, continuing to stare down at his hands. “You’re not what I expected,” the blonde man muttered. Brock glanced up, startled. “What?”

“What?” Barton said, turning back to the TV and un-pausing the game. Brock stared at the man, but Barton didn’t look back over as he focused on the game. “Here,” the archer said, tossing Brock a controller. “Make yourself useful.”

Brock shook his head. It was too early in the morning to try and figure out the puzzle that was Clint Barton, so Brock just picked up the controller as the archer set the game to multiplayer. He did his best to focus on the game but his mind kept wandering. He found himself getting distracted, humming that same song that kept getting stuck in his head lately. He still hadn't figure out where he knew it from.

Seven floors away, a dark haired man sat in the shadows, fingers delicately dancing over the keys of the baby grand piano. The gentle melody drifted through the room as the moonlight glinted off the sparkling metal arm that lay limp in his lap.

 

 _Moonlight becomes you, it goes with your hair_  
_You certainly know the right thing to wear_  
_Moonlight becomes you, I'm thrilled at the sight_  
_And I could get so romantic tonight_  
_You're all dressed up to go dreaming_

  
_Now don't tell me I'm wrong_  
_And what a night to go dreaming_  
_Mind if I tag along_  
_If I say I love you_  
_I want you to know_  
_It's not just because there's moonlight_  
_Although, moonlight becomes you so_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Q6NratKJ-A  
> Link to the piano version of the song if you wanted to have a listen!


	5. My Worst Enemy Is My Memory

The mug slipped from his fingers. It cracked on the tile floor, shattering into a dozen pieces as coffee splattered all over his boots. Brock didn’t even notice. All he could focus on was the white-hot pain that lanced through his head. The lights in the lab hurt his eyes, they were so bright. His vision blacked out and then went white as he scrunched his eyes closed. Images crashed against the back of his eyelids.

  
_Jack digging out their emergency bags from under the sink._

_Jack grabbing him and shoving him up against a wall, lips twisted into a snarl but eyes more scared than Brock had ever seen them look._

_“You stupid fuck, that the fuck where you thinking!?”_

_“I wasn’t—,”_

_“Exactly. You never fucking think. Fuck!”_

_Jack cracking his fist into the wall next to Brock’s head, showing them both with plaster bits._

 

Brock blinked, coming back to the present. Banner was standing in front of him, eyes worried and a hand hovering just above his shoulder. The lights were still too bright and he closed his eyes again with a grimace. “Jarvis, decrease the lights by fifty percent please,” he heard Banner say.

The lights dimmed and he jumped as he felt hands on his shoulders, but they were just guiding him to the stool behind him. “They’re getting worse, aren’t they?” Banner asked quietly. Brock didn’t bother answering. They both knew that these flashbacks of memory were becoming more and more frequent and more and more intense. He stretched his head out to either side. His neck popped and there was a little relief in his headache.

“I think you should talk to someone,” Banner said hesitantly. “What, like a shrink?” Brock chuckled, albeit a little breathlessly. “No thanks, Doc.”

“There is nothing shameful or weak in needing a little help,” Banner began to lecture, but Brock cut him off. “I know that, I’ve…I’ve gone before,” he licked his lips and continued on quickly. “But I’m fine. You get what you needed for today, Doc?” He said before Banner could add anything more.

Banner pursed his lips but didn’t push the subject. “Yeah, I’m good for now. It’ll take a few days to go over everything. I got it, don’t worry,” he added as Brock bent to clean up the broken mug. “I don’t need your pity, Doc,” Brock spat. Banner said nothing. He just grabbed Brock by the wrist. Brock swallowed as the doctor held up his trembling hand for him to see. “Like I said, I got it,” the man said quietly.

Brock didn’t have an answer. Couldn’t answer. He just yanked his hand back and stalked out of the lab. He clenched his hands into fists. He felt like he was coming apart at the seams. Nothing made sense anymore and no one could answer any of the million questions circling in his head. The biggest one was why? Why had this happened and what had HYDRA been trying to make him forget? How had Jack been involved and did Brock really want to know the truth?

 

 

  
Brock was in a precarious situation. Literally, he was balancing on his forearms, legs slowly folding up into the air. _Pincha Mayurasana_ it was technically called, or as Brock liked to call it _Fuck Up Your Face If You Lose Your Balance._ He had been teased mercilessly by the STRIKE personnel under his command when they found out he did yoga, but he just ignored them. It was something his Nonna had forced him into when he was a teenager. Literally. She would drag him to class and sit outside the door to make sure he didn’t try and sneak out. She had it in her head it would help his anger issues.

Brock wasn’t sure how much of an impact it had when he was a kid, but now it was how he calmed himself down. It was a good way to clear his head. He could centre in on his body. It took focus, control, and concentration. It was a different sort of clearing his head than beating the heavy bags. “You have a visitor, sir,” Jarvis said politely as the elevator chimed.

Brock could see from his upside-down vantage point a pair of jean-clad legs step out of the elevator and into the suite. He folded himself gracefully back down to his feet, blinking through the head rush as he stood.

His eyes flicked calculatingly over the man standing in front of him. Mid forties, short dark hair, blue sweater pulled across broad shoulders. Square glasses perched on an arched nose, sitting over light eyes and a pleasant enough face. He looked familiar but Brock couldn’t place the face so he dismissed the feeling. “I don’t mean to drop in unannounced,” the man said in a pleasant baritone. “But I was here on other business, so I thought I would take the opportunity to drop in and introduce myself.”

“Lemme guess,” Brock said with a chuckle. “You’re the house shrink?” The dark-haired man smiled. “I prefer Matt,” he said, leaning casually against the kitchen counter. The name sparked another funny feeling that Brock knew the man. It was bugging him now. “Did Banner send you?” Brock asked, shrugging on a nearby hoody he had tossed over the couch earlier. “He may have mentioned you in passing,” Matt said slowly. Brock chuckled again. “Well, sorry to have wasted your time, Doc.” He said as he crossed into the kitchen and picked up the coffee pot.

“We’ve met before, you know,” the man said mildly as Brock took down a mug from the cupboard above his head. “I’ve only ever been to one shrink in my life, so unless you’re telling me you used to be a four-foot-six asian woman…,” Brock drawled. Matt didn’t seem phased by his flippancy.

“I recognized the name but it seemed too incredible and frankly improbable to be true. I wasn’t sure until I saw your face. More specifically that hair,” Matt said with a smile to include Brock in the teasing. “Yeah, it’s pretty unforgettable,” Brock drawled, not sure where the man was going with this. He was finishing pouring before Matt spoke up again.

“We met in Virginia, nineteen-ninety-two. Digger’s Pub, down by the waterfront.”

Brock set the coffee pot down very carefully, keeping his back to the man. There was no way this was happening. Not here. Not now. Not after everything he already had to deal with.

The odd’s of this happening were astronomical. Yet now the face that had looked only just vaguely familiar clicked into place and a flood of memories that Brock had tried desperately to forget crashed down on him. He looked so different. The glasses were new. The hair was shorter than when Brock had known him. 

“Get out,” he said quietly.

“I’ll take that as a _‘yes, I remember you too’_ ,” Matt said behind him, still sounding pleasant. “I said get the fuck out!” Brock snapped, grabbing the man by the front of the sweater and marching him backwards towards the elevator. Matt grabbed his wrists, scrabbling to keep his feet underneath him. “Agent Rumlow,” Jarvis’ voice snapped through the suite, but Brock ignored it. He slammed Matt non too gently against the elevator doors. Matt for his part looked surprisingly calm, although a little ruffled. “Brock,” he began but Brock wasn’t having it.

“Jarvis, open the fucking doors,” Brock growled, starring daggers at the man he had pinned in front of him. “Brock, what are you doing?” Matt asked calmly, yet firmly.

  
_“What are you doing?”_

 

Brock grimaced as sparks danced up the back of his head and a dull ache echoed across his temples. He felt hands grip his elbows and he blinked as Matt's worried face swam in and out of focus. The man's lips moved but it sounded like he was under water. White hot pain lanced being his eyes and Brock doubled over as images bombarded him. 

 

_“What the fuck are you doing!?”_

_Brock fighting the grip of the agents dragging him backwards through the lab. Hands pushing him into the chair._

_Straps holding down his wrists, his ankles._ _More hands shoving a guard into his mouth and holding his head down. The machine whirring to life. Pierce’s face swimming into view above him, eyes cold._

_“This is for your own good,” Pierce saying softly. “For the good of the cause. You make him weak. And we can’t allow that.”_

_Searing pain burning through his body, out into his fingertips. Burning him from the inside out. Striking every nerve ending, setting his brain on fire._

_“Hail HYDRA.”_

 

  
Brock blinked, coming back to himself. He was a little surprised to find himself lying on the floor. Matt was sitting crosslegged in front of him, but not too close as to crowd him. Brock winced, gingerly pushing himself up into a sitting position. A headache had taken up residence below his ears, throbbing slowly.

He felt cold and shivered despite the hoody he was wearing. “This happen often?” Matt asked gently. Brock didn’t bother replying. All the fight and anger he had previously felt was gone. Now he just felt tired. Tired and embarrassed. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, feeling them sting.

“Bruce told me a little about what was done to you,” Matt was saying gently. “Of course he did,” Brock scoffed. “All the gaps in my memory, yet I couldn’t forget you?” He muttered to himself. Or at least he meant it to be to himself. “I’ll try not to take that personally,” Matt drawled. “Was our time together so bad?” Brock huffed a breath. “It was just the end of my military career, no big deal.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Matt said reasonably. Brock glared. Rationally, he knew the man was right. He had thought he’d accepted that but to have the man sitting right in front of him, especially after everything that happened, was too much. “No, of course not. It was all my fault. I was careless and arrogant and got what I deserved, right?” he said stiffly.

“What you deserved?” Matt said, eyes widening a little. Brock grimaced, but to his surprise didn’t find any of the pity he expected to see in the man’s eyes. There was nothing but that same gentleness that Brock had tried to forget from all those years ago. “What do you mean by that?”

Brock glowered. It wasn’t something he was about to discuss with this this man. “Forget it.” He scrambled to his feet, swaying as dizziness crashed like a wave against him. He flinched away from the steadying hand that reached for his bicep. “Easy,” Matt murmured, holding his hands up. "Don't,” Brock snapped, shrugging off the man’s hand. “Just get out," he said tiredly. 

“Okay,” Matt said calmingly. “I'm going. If you ever want to talk, Jarvis knows how to get ahold of me.” Brock snorted. Like that was ever going to happen. Matt stopped just inside the elevator doors and looked back. He gave Brock a last small, almost sad seeming smile before the elevators closed and was gone from sight.

Brock let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. After everything that had happened, what with HYDRA and the brainwashing and being brought here, and now this. It was all starting to feel too much. Scratch that, it was all too much.

 

 

Brock woke with a shout strangled in his throat and sweat dripping in his eyes. His dreams had been a cacophony of confusion and noise that he couldn't even begin to understand. He wiped his eyes with trembling fingers, silently willing his heart to stop trying to beat its way out of his chest. That had felt so real but not at the same time. It was like when he had been shot and was in the hospital drugged up to his eyeballs. Banner had said that his memories were returning, they most likely would resurface in the form of dreams.

But if that had been a memory, what the fuck was it of?

He shook his head as he stumbled his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. He drank a glass of water with hands that only slightly trembled and collapsed onto the couch. He felt ill, like his guts were tied in knots. His unexpected visitor earlier in the day had also brought back a lot of things Brock hadn’t wanted to remember.

He turned on the TV and barely paid attention as some late night Talkshow host droned on about something apparently very important. A soft clink echoed behind him, followed by a soft thud. Brock didn't both looking. He knew who it was.

"Jesus," Clint said. "You look wrecked." He shoved Brock's feet out of the way, collapsing on the couch next to him. "Thanks ever so much," Brock said, hating how rough his voice sounded. "Remind me why I keep you around?"

" 'Cause I'm pretty," Clint drawled, snatching up the remote and beginning to flip through the channels. Brock rolled his eyes. It had been over a month now since the blonde man had dropped down through Brock's vents and into his weird and strange life here at the Avenger's Tower. He couldn’t remember when Barton had changed to  Clint in his mind, but he had even though he still called him Barton to his face.

He wasn't sure why the archer still hung around. It wasn't like he had done anything to redeem or esteem himself to the man, but he still showed up almost every second night. Once Brock didn't even wake up, the man had been so quiet. He had just trudge downstairs to find Clint playing video games on mute. Neither of them said anything about it. Brock just made coffee and annihilated Clint on the rainbow road.

He and Clint had even started sparring together. It was nice to have an actual opponent who hit back instead of the heavy bag for a change. Clint was smooth and lightning fast, dancing around Brock's blows and keeping him on his toes. For all that, they were pretty equally matched.He wasn’t sure when Clint’s opinion of him changed from wary and judgemental to something almost resembling friendship. To be honest he wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve it.

Bruce too had somehow become a silent support, expressing what seemed like genuine concern whenever Brock stumbled into the lab after a rough night with dark circles under his eyes. The rough nights were getting more and more frequent and Brock couldn't even remember the last time he had a good nights sleep. Although after sending Matt his way, Brock was less inclined to think kindly of the man at this moment.

He wasn't sure what he had done to deserve any of this. He had fully expected to rot in a prison cell for the rest of his life and he had been strangely okay with it. A part of him had almost been relieved when Rogers and SHIELD had caught up with him. The few people he actually cared about were dead and he didn’t really know what to do anymore. At least being a lab rat gave him purpose.

"Wanna talk about it?" Clint said, settling on a marathon of Antique Roadshow. Brock grunted, tucking his arms around himself. That was at the end of a very long list of what he did not want to do. "Wanna pop tart?" Clint said straight faced. "Fuck off," Brock growled. He felt a headache coming on, creating its way up the back of his neck and settling in on his temples.

"How about we go down to the gym, beat the shit outta each other, and then order pizza?" Clint suggested. Brock grunted, shaking his head slightly. He really didn't feel like getting punched right now. “That’s okay, I have a better idea. Come on, lazy bones," he said in a sing-song voice, slapping a hand on Brock's ankle.

  
_“Come on, Bones,” Jack drawled, a lopsided smirk on his face as he and Mercer dragged Brock out the door. “Yeah, don’t be such a lazy bastard,” Mercer teased, a wicked smile tugging at her lips._

  
Brock blinked the memory from his eyes. ”I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" He grumbled as he got to his feet. "You'll need this," Clint said, ignoring Brock's comment and tossing him his hoody. "My floor, please J," he said as he lead Brock into the elevator. "Agent Rumlow does not have clearance to-," Jarvis began but Clint swiftly interrupted him. "Clearance? Aw come on, J. He's not gonna go anywhere. Right?" He turned to Brock with raised eyebrows. "Right," Brock said stiffly.

There was a silent pause and Clint ranted at the air for a bit, but in the end the elevator began its assent. Clint winked as the doors opened and he lead Brock out into the airy floor. Furniture sprawled across the open floor plan, with hammocks and basket chairs hanging higher than would be considered traditional.

“I call it the Nest,” Clint threw over his shoulder as he strode down a nearby hallway, turning this way and that before pausing at a locked door. He punched a code into the keypad and the door opened under his hands with a soft click.

“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” Clint said in a hushed voice, the smirk tugging at his lips ruining any sense of gravitas. Brock blinked. They had stepped into a wide open room, with a line of targets along the far left side. On closer inspection, Brock could see they weren’t traditional targets. They were made of thick woven rope.

Clint strode across the room towards a large locker. “Here,” Clint said, picking up a rectangular object, alternating black and silver metals about the length of his forearm. With a sharp snap of his wrist, Clint unfurled to device to reveal a bow.

Brock blinked as Clint held out the bow towards him. “Starring’s rude,” the man drawled. “But I don’t know how to shoot,” Brock said, staring at the bow in his hands dubiously. “Obviously,” Clint said, rolling his eyes. “That’s why I’m gonna teach you. Wait, you’re right handed, right?” At Brock’s nod, Clint took the bow back and handed him a different one. He grabbed a quiver full of black-fletched arrows and lead Brock over to one of the lanes.

“Right so, sideways to the target,” Clint said, taking a firm stance with feet firmly planted. “Arrow to the nock and draw with two or three fingers back to your jaw.” Clint drew the bowstring back in a smooth, practiced move. “Sight with your dominant eye and then smoothly release.” Clint let go over the string, his hand never moving from where it was resting against his jaw. The arrow flew true and buried itself in the bullseye with a solid thwack.

Clint turned to Brock with a smirk and a bright spark in his eye. “Right, your turn.”

 

 

  
An half hour later and Brock’s fingers ached. He had lost a few chunks of skin from the top of his left thumb, but the arrows were steadily being marched towards the centre of the target. It almost looked purposeful. Brock had to admit, it was a great way to clear his head. It took a lot of concentration and he could just get lost in the physicality of it. It was also less

“Well, you’re not horrible,” Clint drawled as Brock sent another arrow into the second ring on the target. “Thanks,” Brock said sarcastically, massaging out his fingers. It was three more arrows before Clint spoke again. “So I heard Matt came to see you.” Brock’s fingers snapped from the string, sending the arrow wide and into the wall.

“Went that well, huh,” Clint remarked mildly. Brock put another arrow to the bow, jaw muscles jumping as he clenched his teeth. “He’s a good sort, as shrinks go,” Clint nattered on. “We have history,” Brock said through clenched teeth. “Oh, what kind of history?” Clint asked innocently enough. Another arrow into the wall and Brock put down the bow. “If you don’t want to tell me, fine,” Clint said, a little affronted. “But there’s no need to put more dents in the walls, I mean I do that enough on my own—,”

“We use to fuck,” Brock snapped harshly and then instantly regretted it. He felt the colour drain from his face. He had just wanted Clint to shut up. That certainly did the trick. Clint’s eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline and Brock braced himself for the comments, the sneers, the disgust. Much to his surprise, none of that happened. He managed not to flinch as Clint clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” he said, striding out of the range and just expecting Brock to follow.

Brock watched as the blonde grabbed a bottle of bourbon from his cupboard on the way to a different elevator from the one they had arrived in. “Agent Rumlow doesn’t have—,” the AI began but Clint interrupted. “Seriously? This again? He's been here over a freakin' month. What is he going to do, leap to the adjacent building? Scramble down the side like that kid on youtube?”

There was a lengthy pause and then the doors closed. “Thank you,” Clint said with an exasperated sigh. The wind tugged gently as the doors opened as he followed Clint out across the roof. The view of the city was spectacular, the lights from the buildings mirroring the few stars that could be seen in the sky. There wasn’t much of a railing on this part of the roof, more like a hip-height ledge which Clint had no qualms about hopping up on, dangling his feet over open air.

Brock settled for leaning against the ledge beside the man, not really up for courting such a fall. He accepted the bottle when passed, pulling a long swig and relishing in the familiar burn. “I like coming up here,” Clint said, accepting the bottle as Brock passed it back. “That elevator is the only access and no one else ever uses it. Well, only access not including the vents but no one uses those either but me.”

Brock raised his eyebrows in surprise. Clint just smirked. “The vent in your kitchen? Third right takes you to a ladder which comes up on the other side of the elevator. Jarvis doesn't have eyes in the vents. Tony…changed it once we all moved in.”

“Doesn’t seem smart,” Brock muttered. Clint shrugged. “He’s got eyes on all the access points, just not in the vents themselves. They…I just like them,” Clint shrugged again, taking another swig. “So you and the doc, huh?” He said with a sly smirk, changing the subject smoothly while passing the bottle back to Brock. “I wouldn’t have called that one.”

“It was a long time ago,” Brock said stiffly, hiding behind another mouthful of bourbon. “So not much love lost between the two of you, then?” Clint’s comment felt like a knife digging up under Brock’s ribs and he refused to answer.

They sat in silence, slowly draining the bottle until Brock had quite a good buzz going. “I ever tell you I grew up in a circus?” Clint said suddenly. Brock sighed, leaning forward on his forearms. “Don’t. I know what you’re doing,” he said. “Doing?” Clint said innocently. “I’m not doing anything. It’s called sharing, that's what friends do. If you don’t wanna hear about my scarring childhood then fine, I’ll find someone—,”

“Okay, okay,” Brock said, giving in with a chuckle. Then he realized what the man had said. “Is that what we are? Friends?” He asked quietly. “What else would you call it?” Clint said simply. “You’re not gonna get all mushy on me now, are you?”

“Fuck off,” Brock growled, snatching the bourbon back. Clint snickered. They sat quietly, finishing off the bottle in record time. “You know,” Clint began, swinging his legs out over the edge. “After what happened on the helicarrier two years ago,” he said, referring to what Brock could only assume was the mind control incident.

Thirty-six agents had been injured and eight were killed because of Clint’s actions. Not that it had been his fault, being brain washed at the time. At least that was how Brock had seen it when it happened. Not everyone had held the same opinion. “Well, to put it mildly I was a wreck,” Clint said with a bitter chuckle. “I couldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat. Nat was worried sick. My wife even more so.”

“I didn’t know you were married,” Brock said in surprise. It wasn’t something that had ever come up in conversation before this. The man didn’t wear a ring and was less keen on sharing personal details than Brock, which was saying something. Clint nodded.

“I wouldn’t talk about what happened, not even to her. I couldn’t, you know. I couldn’t tell her. People died because of me. Good people,” Brock swallowed thickly at the confession. Clint said it so plainly, so matter of factly. Like it wasn’t himself he was talking about.

“Then I woke up in an arm bar because I had tried to choke my wife in my sleep.”

Clint took a shaky breath, staring out over the city. “And so I ran. Didn’t even stop to think until I was in the middle of nowhere. I had no idea where I was. Ended up in some flea-bitten motel at a truck stop.” Much to Brock’s surprise, the archer smiled. It was a small smile, but it was warm and fond.

“Laura found me there. Well, technically Nat did, but…she came. Wearing a turtleneck so I couldn’t see the bruises. Everything I had done and she still came. And I…I broke. And she just held me. No judgement, no pity. Later that night, we talked for hours. Or more appropriately, I talked and she listened. And after, things started to get better. It wasn't easy, still isn't. But it’s better.”

Clint turned to Brock, a knowing look in his eyes. Brock felt pinned under the gaze and tried his best not to squirm. “What I’m trying to say is that talking about shit helps. And it doesn’t have to be with Matt or even me, but it should be with someone.”

Brock said nothing, turning his eyes to look over the city. The air had gotten colder and he shivered a little, wrapping his arms around himself. In a moment of recklessness, or perhaps temporary insanity, he placed his palms flat on the ledge and hoisted himself up. His heart was pounding in his chest by the time he got himself sitting next to Clint, his legs hanging out over open air.

“Holy shit,” he gasped, glancing down to the ground so far down that the cars looked like tiny ants. “There’s nothing like it, is there?” Clint said with a toothy grin. “If you say so,” Brock said, not entirely convinced. Silence descended on the roof again, only broken by the distant roar of traffic. Brock felt like he was fighting a war within himself. It was a story he had never told anyone since it happened. Not even Jack.

But maybe it was time.

“I was twenty-seven,” he finally said, staring down past his feet to the ground far below. “Back then, with the military, if you were…well, you had to be careful. I thought I was,” he swallowed, forcing the words past his lips. “I met Matt at a pub in Virginia in-between tours. One thing led to another and we ended up at his place. And before I knew it, three months had passed.” He licked his lips nervously. The next bit was the hardest part to say. Clint didn’t rush him and for that Brock was glad.

“I got jumped one night on the way back to base. Four of the men from my squad. They saw us out for dinner. Matt had kissed me before I could stop him. They were careful to avoid my face but they broke three of my ribs and fractured my wrist. Told me their squad wasn’t the place for someone like me,” he said bitterly. 

“Jesus,” Clint muttered. Brock gripped the corner of the ledge until his knuckles turned white. “They made my life a living hell,” he continued softly. It was almost like now that he had started, he couldn’t stop. The words just bubbled past his lips in a rush. “Threatened to report me. When my tour was up, it was either leave on my own or get dishonourably discharged.” He took a shaky breath, his chest feeling tight.

“And you blamed Matt,” Clint commented.

“Yeah,” Brock said quietly. “It was easier. I was so stupid. Stupid and careless and if I hadn't…,” he fumbled but forced himself to keep going. “If I hadn’t let things get so far, I would never have had to leave the military and probably wouldn’t have joined HYDRA and then none of this shit would be happening.”

“Maybe," Clint said softly. "But then you would have never met me,” the man added with a grin and a terrifying back-roll off the ledge to hand on his feet on the roof. “Are you ever in a bad mood?” Brock said, silently grateful for Clint’s change of subject. He subtly wiped his eyes before carefully getting off the ledge.

“Only when I run out of vanilla pop tarts. Come on, let's order pizza and charge it to Cap's account,” Clint said easily but the hand he clapped on Brock’s shoulder as they made their way back to the elevators was firm and reassuring.

“Wasn’t your fault either, man,” Clint said softly. “Not even close."

Brock swallowed thickly, not for the first time wondering what the hell he ever did to deserve this reassurance. He didn't deserve it. That was the problem. He didn't deserve a goddamn thing, not after everything that he had done. Had allowed to happen. He cleared his throat, forcing himself from wallowing on that dangerous train of thought.

“Your wife really put you in an arm bar?” Brock asked as they stepped into the elevator. “Oh yeah,” Clint said excitedly, voice heavily laced with pride. “She’s bad ass. As fierce as she is beautiful. The kids take after her and not me, thank god.”

“Wait, kids?!” Brock said incredulously, eyes wide in shock. "Kids as in plural? As in more than one?!" Clint just smirked as the elevator doors closed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the kind and supportive comments! I love that you are all enjoying this story as it is something that I am loving to create and share with you all! <3


	6. When The Memories Hit You

_“Shit, he got shot?!”_

_“How the fuck did that even happen?”_

_“Sniper! Get down!”_

_“Get him on the ground! I need gauze!” A different voice speaking now, one sounding warm and familiar._

_Pain flaring through his right shoulder. That same warm voice murmuring near his ear. “Easy kid. You’re okay, you’re okay. Just don’t move. I gotcha.”_

_Hands pressing on his shoulder. Fingers brushing hair from his eyes._

_“I gotcha.”_

 

  
James startled awake, blinking the dream away into the darkness. Or at least he thought it was a dream. Mind now clearing from the fog of smoke, he realized that it probably wasn't just a dream. After all, he really didn't get those very often anymore. He took a deep breath as he sat up. He slide his right hand under his shirt, to the joint of the same shoulder where he knew his fingers would find the knotted scar tissue of an old gunshot wound.

He had always wondered where it had come from. He had so many marks and scars on his body now and he had no idea where any of them came from. He scrubbed his hair back from his eyes, glancing at the clock.

_5:42AM._

He grimaced, but it could be worse. He flopped back down, staring at the ceiling. Slowly, ever so slowly, the sun crept into the room. It basked the walls in warm light and James could already hear Steve bustling around. James sighed. He might as well get up.

 

 

“Bucky? Bucky!”

“Huh?” James said, blinking. Then he realized that he was holding a piece of half-eaten toast and couldn’t remember how long he had been doing so. “I did it again, didn’t I?” He asked softly, putting the toast down. Steve just smiled, that understanding look in his eye, and didn’t comment on it. “You know I don’t have to go in today,” Steve said casually, not looking James in the eye. “I can get my paperwork done from here.”

James rolled his eyes. “Steve, relax.” Not that he would admit to it out loud, but he was glad when work took Steve out of the Tower for a while. It was a nice break from the constant hovering. It made James feel even worse. He knew that wasn’t Steve’s intention, but he wasn’t made out of glass.  
“I’m fine,” James said instead, taking a bite of toast. “Really Stevie,” he insisted. “I know,” Steve said, leaning against the counter. His blue eyes were so ernest it made James’ chest hurt. “And I know I can be…a little…,”

“Smothering?” James said with a smirk to soften the blow. Steve blushed and ducked his head all the same. “Yeah, that,” he admitted. “I know I’ve been making you feel like I’m wrapping you in cotton wool. That’s not fair to you or helpful.” James was surprised that Steve had noticed. Or maybe someone had called him out on it. Probably Barton.

“It’s alright,” he started but Steve shook his head. “No, it’s not.” He insisted, looking a little shamefaced. “And I’m sorry.” Now it was James’ turn to shake his head. “Don’t have to apologize. But thanks anyways.” Steve pulled a tight smile, turning to push his plate away in the dishwasher.

“Hey, I was thinking maybe we could take a trip to Brooklyn. See how things have changed,” James suggested hesitantly. “That sounds swell,” Steve said with a huge grin. James couldn’t help but smile too, it was that infectious. Everything was worth seeing Steve smile like that again. “See you tonight,” he said, clapping a hand on James’ shoulder.

“Whatever you say. Punk,” James called out after him. Steve snapped a crisp salute, discipline ruined by the wide grin. “Jerk.”

James blinked as a memory swamped him.

 

  
_“You’re a punk.”_

_“Jerk.”_

_Hugging a Steve much shorter and smaller than the one in front of him now._

_“Don’t win the war till I get there.”_

_James himself snapping a crips salute, the mirror image of what Steve was doing now._

 

 

James blinked again, images disappearing from his mind like smoke as the elevator doors closed and hid Steve from sight. Now the question was, what was he going to do now?

 

 

  
James found himself back in the music room. He played around with some scales, getting a feel for the instrument again. He played the song he had played the last time, although still only right handed. The arm had been glitching a little as of late. He had broken a mug the other day just by picking it up. Steve promised to get Tony to look into it once they got back, but that was the last thing James wanted to have happen.

So he kept his left hand firmly in his lap and just played with his flesh and bone hand. The end of the song gently morphed into another and it was one he actually could identify. Scarborough Fair. He even found himself humming along with it.

 

  
_Tattered material fluttering over barred windows. Dust drifting through sunbeams. Creaking floorboards under heavy combat boots._

_Finding a scratched and dirty piano in the back corner. Leaning his sniper rifle against the side of the instrument._

 

  
James blinked, feeling a headache creeping up the back of his skull. He faltered, the melody falling apart under his hands as the memories came faster and faster.

 

  
_Someone sitting down beside him. Hands moving in concert, one hesitant and hitting wrong notes every so often._

_“You shouldn’t do that. It could fuck up the programming.”_

_“You worry too much, Rollins.”_

 

  
James took a deep breath. He could have sworn he heard gunshots. He could almost feel the blood splattering across his face. He did feel it. He felt it dripping off his chin.

 

  
_“Jesus, he’s a fucking mess.”_

_“Aw gross, there’s brain matter in his fucking hair!”_

_“Just shut up and let me think!”_

 

  
James had come to recognize that last voice. He heard it a lot in his dreams.

 

  
_Hands tipping his head over a tub. Blood rinsing from his hair in soapy streams. Curling down the drain._

_Hands gently scrubbing through his hair. Blunt nails scratching against his scalp. Hands towelling his hair dry. Brushing out the tangles with gentle hands._

_“You look like a drowned cat, kid.”_

 

  
James blinked as the memory settled, the throbbing pain creeping up to his temples but apparently his swiss cheese brain wasn’t finished pulling memories out of nowhere yet.

 

  
_“Kid, you need to calm down. Deep breath, okay?”_

_“We should just tranq him. It’d be easier.”_

_“Shut up, I got this.”_

_Dark eyes snapping with worry. Hands held out, gesturing for calm._

_“You need to calm down.”_

_Pain and panic stabbing through his head. The room spinning. Hands grabbing his elbows. Falling against a broad muscular chest._

_“I gotcha. Easy. Just breath.”_

_“ m’ head hurts.”_

 

_Dark hair, far shorter than James’, sweeping up and away from a tanned face and strong jawline._

_Thin crows feet crinkling around equally dark eyes, sparkling with humour and a little sadness._

_A lopsided smirk just screaming mischief._

 

 

James was snapped from the flood of images by the sound of his own voice, echoing across his memory. Pain crackled behind his eyes and he felt sick.

He wasn't focusing on that though. He was focusing on the man whose face was dancing in his memory. It was the first time he had a face to put to that voice and he knew exactly who it belonged to.

And that man was currently living twelve floors above him.

 

 

 

  
James was in the elevator before he could think too much about what he was about to do. “Jarvis, what floor is Agent Rumlow on?”

“Agent Rumlow is currently on his floor, sir,” Jarvis answered carefully. “Take me there. Please,” James added on, unable to be anything but polite to the AI. “I’m not sure Captain Rogers would approve, sir,” Jarvis said, hesitated still heavily laced through his voice. “Then we don’t tell him,” James reasoned, bouncing on the balls of his feet in agitation.

“Jarvis, please. I need to know.”

The silence felt heavy as James waited. Then the elevator doors slide closed and James felt the floor vibrate under his feet. “Shall I inform Agent Rumlow of your visit?”

“No,” James snapped, suddenly feeling anxious. “Yes. I mean…I don’t know.”

“As you say, sir,” the AI said drolly. James focused on his breathing, which became increasingly difficult the longer the elevator kept moving. Finally they stopped and the doors opened. James’ stomach had now taken residence somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.

He stepped cautiously out and into the open style suite, glancing around. The kitchen sprawled out along the righthand side, adjacent to the living room. The standard floor to ceiling windows had a stunning view out over the city. A creak made him turn. There he was, coming down the curved staircase which James assumed lead to the bedroom.

  
The man from his memories.

He looked good, if more than a little startled. A fitted black t-shirt showed up muscular biceps and forearms. Strong hands currently holding a book, fingers delicately hooked along the spine to keep the page.

The same dark hair, styled in the same way. The same strong jaw, covered with a light dusting of scruff. The same dark eyes, unusually wide with shock, stared down at him intently. _Brock_ , his mind supplied for him. _Brock Rumlow._

_Agent Brock Rumlow._

“Hey,” James said, because he really didn’t know what else to say. “Hey,” the man said back. An awkward silence fell over the two men. James shifted his weight nervously. He caught himself unconsciously twiddling his thumb and forefinger and clenched his hands into fists.

“I’m James,” he said. “I know,” Brock said quietly. James promptly kicked himself mentally. What a stupid thing to say. Of course the man knew now who he really was.

That sent James’ mind spinning down a completely different train of thought. Had the man always known who he was? Or had he been kept in the dark about the identity of the Winter Soldier along with everyone else?

“Brock,” the dark haired man said softly. “I know who you are,” James said on reflex and watched as the other man flinched. It hadn’t been his intention to make the man uncomfortable. He had just wanted to know.

“Did…did you ever wash my hair?” James said in a rush, finally breaking the silence. “What?” Brock said, blinking blankly. This was obviously the last thing the man was expecting. “Did you ever wash my hair?” James said again, slower and far more clearly. “Before, I mean.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid,” the man chuckled, but the humour didn’t reach his eyes. They were guarded and careful as they watched him, like they were waiting for him to do something unpredictable. And maybe he was. James was aware that he had worked with this man many times during his imprisonment with HYDRA. He had probably dealt with lapses in his programming, with the unpredictability that came with it.

Or maybe he was just expecting James to leap across the space and rip his throat out for what the man had helped subject him to. Perhaps James should, but the memories kept nagging at him and for some reason he wasn’t angry at the man.

Hell, it was hard to even see him as a HYDRA agent. He was just... _Brock_. Just the man from his memories who was actually kind. Who treated him like a human being and not just like a mindless weapon.

“I remember someone washing the blood from my hair. And I remember your face,” he said softly. The man frowned, forehead crinkling in thought. Then a slow grin spread across his face. The same lopsided smirk James knew from his messy memories. This time the humour reached those dark eyes, laugh lines crinkling at the corners.

“Oh Jesus,” the man chuckled. “Yeah, I remember that. Point blank kill. You were a fucking mess. Brains and blood everywhere. Matted in your hair. We seriously contemplated just cutting it all off.”

“So you did wash my hair?” James asked, needing to hear the man actually say it. He needed to know the memories were real. Sometimes he confused memories with normal dreams, seeing as how so many memories resurfaced while he was asleep. “Yeah,” the man said, a cautious guard shuttering over his eyes. “Yeah, I did. Took three tries to get it clean.”

“Do you…,” Brock faltered, licking his lips nervously. “Did I ever…teach you piano?” If the man had looked startled before, he was a full on deer in the headlights now. His eyebrows practically disappeared into his hair. “What?” he exclaimed. “You gonna make me repeat everything I say?” James snapped, beginning to feel exasperated.

  
The man started, like he wasn’t expecting James to have any personality beyond timid. “I don’t know, maybe,” the man replied, brow furrowing in thought. "So is that a no?" James asked. The man shrugged. "I don't know," he said again.

“You don’t remember?”

Something flickered across the man’s eyes. “I don’t remember a lot of things,” the man said quietly, staring down at his feet. James swallowed thickly. Steve had mentioned that Brock had been exposed to the chair just as James had been. “I know the feeling,” he said with a smirk. Brock huffed a laugh, raising his eyes to meet James’ again. He took a couple steps down the stairs, pausing when he got to the bottom.

“What else do you remember?” the man asked hesitantly.

“About you?” James asked. The man said nothing, shifting self consciously. Before James could do more than blink, a flood of memories crashed into his mind, but this time it was different. Instead of an overwhelming storm of images and sensations, it was like a calm river. Each image and memory flowed through his mind like a gentle caress.

“I remember you catching me when they would wake me up from cryosleep. Everyone else would just let me fall but you'd always catch me.” Now that James had started talking, he couldn't stop. The flow of images were overwhelming everything else and the words just tumbled from his tongue.

“And you’d always double check all my gear after I was suited up because you didn’t trust the other agents to do it properly. I remember when our transport broke down in the middle of the desert and we had to walk for three days. I had to carry you by the end of it because your concussion made you too dizzy to walk.” James swallowed, the next memory that resurfaced pricking painfully in his chest.

He could almost feel the mouth guard biting into his gums.

“I remember you always being there when they put me in the chair.”

Even from this distance James could see Brock’s jaw muscles jumping as he clenched his teeth. Tension and anxiety radiated from the other man, like he was once again waiting for James to snap.

For some reason James wanted to sooth those tension lines from the other man’s face. He didn’t want to cause the man discomfort and it made no fucking sense, even to him. By all accounts he should want the man dead. Hell, no one would probably blame him if he tore the man apart right now. 

But he didn’t want to do that. Not even close. And it confused the hell out of him.

“I remember you spotting for me,” James said hurriedly, trying to move the topic to something safer. Well, relatively speaking of course. “When I shot a man in his office from three buildings away. We were on that rooftop in the pouring rain for hours.”

“Was that in Germany?” Brock asked quietly, slowly moving to the kitchen counter. He put the book down, perching on one of the stools, his eyes never leaving James’. “Yeah, I think so,” James replied. The smirk was back on Brock’s face, small and a little weak around the edges but it was back.

“I remember that mission,” Brock said. He scrubbed a hand over his face with a chuckle. “You had a meltdown on the flight home. I can’t remember what triggered you but you just completely shut down. Had to practically carry you onto the plane and then twenty minutes later you were trying to crack my skull in. Took ages to calm you down.”

 

_Dark eyes snapping with worry. Hands held out, gesturing for calm._

_“You need to calm down."_

_Hands grabbing his elbows. Falling against a broad muscular chest._

 

 

“Was that when you gave me chocolate?” he asked, taking a couple steps closer into the kitchen. Brock’s smirk pulled into a full blown grin. “No, that was ah…Budapest. You puked you guts out all over Murphy’s shoes. And Jack—,” the man bite off his words, something sad fluttering across his face. “Anyways,” he said, clearing his throat.

James drifted closer until he was opposite Brock across the kitchen counter. He leaned forward on his elbows, studying the man through his lashes. His face looked thinner than James remembered. Dark circles bruised under his eyes and his lower lip was peeling a little, like he had been chewing, nervous like.

“You look tired,” James said before he could stop himself. He felt his face go hot and he glanced away. The man just huffed, that small smirk still on his face. “Yeah well, you don’t look like a ray of sunshine either.”

James swallowed, staring down at the grainy looking marble countertop. “I have trouble sleeping,” he mumbled. He heard Brock sigh. “Yeah, I bet.” Silence descended on the apartment again, neither men really knowing what to say next. Small talk seemed a little beneath the situation, considering their history.

He chanced a look up, meeting the man square in the eyes. It wasn’t like anything happened, not really. It was more like James couldn't look away. Like he was being drawn into those dark eyes. He wasn’t sure how long he stared, how long the other man stared back.

It was Jarvis would broke it off in the end. “Apologies for the interruption sirs,” the AI said politely. James blinked, watching as Brock jerked back and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “But Captain Rogers has arrived on your shared floor and is currently asking for your whereabouts.”

“I should go,” James said softly. He moved towards the elevator, muscles feeling tense and sore.

“I’m sorry,” the man blurted out from behind him.

James froze, turning over his shoulder to stare back at the dark haired man. “What?” he breathed.

He watched the older man squirm under his gaze, muscles radiating tension. “I just…for…fuck, I don't…I don’t know. I’m just sorry.” He cut himself off, jaw working as he planted his hands and stared at the ground.

James felt his throat go tight as he watched the man struggle. “For what?” James asked quietly. Brock huffed, tossing his arms in the arm as he visibly struggled to find the words. “For everything. For fucking everything. And I know it can’t make anything different, or change what I did, but—,”

“Apologies for the continued interruptions sir,” Jarvis interrupted. “But I thought you'd like to know that Captain Rogers is currently in the elevators. He is…tense.”

“Shit,” James muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You can go to the roof,” Brock said softly. He turned back to the man with raised eyebrows. “The vents,” Brock said, pointing to the grate above the kitchen. “They lead up to the roof. Elevators do too. He wouldn’t know you were here.”

James nodded, heading into the kitchen. Brock made no move from the spot where he stood, hand planted on the counter like it was somehow grounding him. He hopped up on the counter, easily popping the grate down.

“Third right will take you to a ladder,” Brock said. “That’ll lead you up to the roof. Comes out behind the elevator shaft.” James nodded his thanks as he hoisted himself up into the vent, briefly losing sight of the dark haired man.

He crawled to the first junction and then turned around, crawling back to close the grate because he was too broad to turn around in the narrow vents. He reached down for the grate and froze.

The man below him had collapsed back onto the stool, head buried in his hands as his shoulders shook just ever so slightly. James felt an uncomfortable flutter in his chest that felt strangely like protectiveness at the sight.

He said nothing. He just carefully reached down and closed the grate before crawling his way through the vents to meet Steve on the roof.

 

 

 

 

As soon as the Soldier disappeared into the vents, Brock felt his knees go weak and he collapsed back onto the stool with a thud. He buried his face in his hands as an overwhelming storm of emotions swamped him and he felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was feeling so overwhelmed. He had always felt guilty about what had been done to the Soldier. Hell, he had done everything he could to treat the kid like a human being and not just a weapon.

He had in fact been pulled into more than one disciplinary meeting in regards to his conduct with the Soldier, but he had never payed them much mind. They always got the job done. That’s what HYDRA really cared about; results.

His shoulders started to shake against his will and he pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes as tears leaked uncontrollably down his cheeks. Pain seared through his skull as images pounded against the inside of his eyelids.

 

 

_“Is this the part where you put a bullet in my skull?”_

_“Don’t be an idiot. I’m here to help.”_

_“This can’t be happening. I can’t…What the fuck are we gonna do?!”_

_A vice-like grip clenching around his chest. Hands grabbing his shoulders hard enough to bruise._

_“We need to get you out of here. Both of you.”_

_Laughter welling up in his chest, bubbling past his lips. Manic laughter._

_“That can't happen and you know it! We don't get to just walk away. They won't let us and they'll kill us if we try.”_

_"Well, they can't kill you. It'd ruin him."_

 

_It'd ruin him._

_It'd ruin him...._

 

  
The images faded, leaving Brock gasping and shaky. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He stumbled to the sink, splashing cold water on his face. He felt nauseous. He didn’t even register the elevator doors opening.

“You look like shit,” a familiar voice drawled from behind him.

“Piss off,” Brock growled, wiping his face dry on a nearby dishtowel. “I’m not in the mood.”

“J mentioned you might be having a rough time. That’s why I brought supplies!” Brock turned to find a grinning Clint proudly displaying a stack of pizza boxes in one hand and a bottle of expensive whiskey in the other. Brock sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

He watched as Clint spread the pizza boxes over the coffee table and cued up the TV. “Wanna talk about it?” He threw nonchalantly over his shoulder as he scrolled through the horror movie selection.

“Nope,” Brock said shortly, grabbing a couple tumblers from the cupboard and collapsing onto the couch beside the blonde archer. “You like horror?” Clint asked, pouring two fingers of whiskey into both glasses. “That new movie As Above, So Below just came out. Stark has access to literally anything you could want. Oooh, or the second Purge movie just came out. It has that actor in it, Frank whats-his-face. Hey, he kinda looks like you!”

“Whatever man,” Brock muttered, downing the whiskey in one go and ignoring the pizza completely. Clint rolled his eyes, grabbing a couple pieces of pizza and stacking them onto a napkin. “Eat,” he said sternly, waving it under Brock’s nose.

“Stop it,” Brock griped as Clint shoved the pizza into his hands, dripping grease onto Brock’s jeans. “Seriously?” He snapped, licking his fingers. Clint continued to glare at him until he took a bite. With a satisfied nod, Clint poured Brock another two fingers of whiskey.

 

 

A few hours and three large pizzas later and Clint shut off the TV. “Come on,” he said, jumping to his feet and grabbing the bottle. “It’s supposed to be a clear night. Let’s go to the roof.”

“You and your freakin’ heights,” Brock grumbled but didn’t argue as he snatched up a hoody and followed Clint to the elevators.

It was a very clear night as they stepped out onto the roof. The city was alive in sparkling colour and if they squinted they could even see a few stars not blotted out by the lights from the high-rises.

Brock hesitated, seeing the dark silhouette of someone sitting on the ledge in front of them, perched as easily as Clint hd been with legs dangling over open air.

“Shit, I didn’t know he’d be up here.” Clint said quietly. Brock frowned, opening his mouth to ask why and what exactly it was that he would mind, but stopped as he noticed the shoulder length long hair the silhouette was sporting. The familiar broad shoulders.

Brock swallowed. After the run-in he had just had with the man earlier that day, he wasn’t necessarily looking forward to seeing him again so soon. But he wasn’t about to make this any more awkward than it had to be.

“I don't think I should be here,” he said softly. "I'm sure it'll be fine," Clint said. Brock just shook his head, taking a retreating step back towards the elevators. Clint just rolled his eyes. "Here, I'll just ask." 

"Clint, don't!" Brock hissed but the man was already striding across the roof. “Yo Bucky!” Clint called out, gently enough to not startle the man. The man glanced back, eyes shifting from Clint to Brock immediately. It was too dark for Brock to see the kid’s face clearly but he felt a rush of anxiety and something else he couldn't really explain.

“You okay with some company?” Clint said casually, but cleaning holding a deeper meaning. James hesitated, eyeing Brock intently, but nodded in the end. “Sweet!” Clint said, hopping up on the ledge and settling himself between James and the large electrical box that protruded down the side. “We come with alcohol!”

Clint glanced back, waving Brock over. He reluctantly crossed the roof, unsure and uncertain that this was a good idea. On top of it all, Clint’s choice of seating arrangement forced Brock to be beside James instead of using the archer as a buffer between the two of them. Still a little apprehensive of the height, Brock once again settled for just leaning against the ledge.

He settled in just to see James smirk, casting a fond look towards the archer. “You know it’ll take far more then that to get me drunk.” Clint grinned back. “I know but I still like to try,” he said, passing the bottle across to James. He took a sip, hesitated, then passed it over to Brock. “Thanks,” he said quietly, taking a long pull from the bottle.

The three men sat quietly for a long time, just passing the bottle back and forth. “So how are you enjoying the twenty-first century so far?” Clint asked, kicking his feet out over the open air. It made Brock’s stomach flip just seeing it. “Internet is fun but…the city has changed so much,” James commented quietly, staring out over the rooftops as he took another swig of the bottle. “I’ll bet,” Clint chuckled, accepting the whiskey as James passed it over.

“It’s just…so bright now,” James continued. Brock stole a glance at the younger man, but he was just staring out over the buildings. “Or at least, a different type of brightness. So busy. And loud. It never seems to slow down."

Clint hummed in agreement. “That’s why I like it up here, especially at night. It removes you from it all. Gives you perspective, makes the city seem calm somehow.”

Brock felt something warm curl in his chest. It took a second for him to realize James was talking again.

“ _Almost the mighty city is asleep. No pushing crowd, no tramping feet. Bu here and there a few cars groaning creep. Along, above, and underneath the street._ ”

James blushed as Clint and Brock turned to stare at him. “I forget the rest,” he mumbled. “That’s quiet pretty,” Clint commented but Brock wasn’t paying attention. A strange warm feeling had settled in his chest and he found himself speaking without really knowing what he was saying.

“ _Bearing their strangely-ghostly burdens by. The women and men of garish nights. Their eyes wine-weakened and their clothes awry. Grotesque beneath the strong electric lights._ ”

Now it was Clint and James’ turn to stare at him, and Brock’s turn to blush. “It’s _Dawn Comes To New York_ , right?” He said, clearing his throat self-consciously.

“How did you know that?” James asked quietly, hands clenched around the ledge. Brock shrugged, covering the confusion he felt because he really wasn't sure how he knew that. “My mom was a big poetry buff,” he shrugged. “Probably one of the ones she used to read to me as a kid.”

“Well what are the odds?” Clint said mildly. Brock cast a look across to the archer, but Clint was just looking out across the city, as innocent as could be. “Give me that,” he snapped, snatching the bottle from the blonde’s hand. “Rude!” Clint scolded. James snorted and Brock just rolled his eyes, but deep down inside he fell strangely content.

Maybe this wasn’t so awkward after all.

 

 

 

 

 

It was late, far too late for Clint to be wandering down to the labs but if he knew the man he was looking for, he wouldn't be asleep either. He had left Brock at his apartment while Bucky took the vents back to the floor he shared with Steve. Apparently Cap hadn’t known Bucky had snuck out and the kid had wanted to keep it that way.

“Hey Brucie,” Clint called out to the curly haired doctor who was currently bent over a stack of papers at his desk. “Clint,” the man said patiently. “What can I do for you?”

“I was hanging out with Rumlow earlier,” he said casually, leaning on the corner of the table. “Uh huh,” the man said with aggravated patience, not looking up from his paperwork. “And Bucky,” Clint added casually. He watched with a careful eye as Bruce tensed.

“Steve isn’t gonna like that,” Bruce said mildly, turning to give Clint his full attention. “What Steve doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Clint said, flapping a hand dismissively. Bruce gave him a look but didn’t press the issue.

“What is it you want, Clint?” Bruce said with a sigh, clearly wanting to just get back to work.

“Have you noticed anything…unusual with Rumlow?” Clint asked slowly, eyes sharp as he watched Bruce’s reaction. “In relationship to what exactly?”

Clint fiddled with some papers on the edge of the desk. “Bucky.”

He felt more than saw the man tense and Clint jumped on it. “You have noticed something haven’t you?” He pressed. Bruce squirmed, obviously unwilling to give too much away. “I’ve witnessed a few…oddities,” he said slowly.

“Like how earlier tonight Rumlow finished a poem written in the nineteen-twenties that Bucky couldn’t remember fully?” Clint asked intently. “Those kind of oddities?”

Bruce sighed, taking off his glasses. “Like Rumlow humming a song from the thirties and being unable to remember how he knew it? Yes, like those kind of oddities.”

Clint swallowed, the gravity of what this could mean beginning to settle in on him. “Anything else?” he asked quietly. Bruce hesitated, tapping his fingers restlessly against the table.

“A few things but nothing that would prove anything for sure," he finally admitted. "Just some strange dreams Rumlow’s been having. One in particular that he’s had since he was a kid got me thinking.” Clint nodded, processing this new information. “Steve mentioned Bucky’s been been having some strange dreams himself.”

A heavy silence descended on the lab, one which neither men were in a hurry to break. Clint finally did, shifting his weight nervously.

“You don’t think that…that they are…,” he trailed off, unable to say the words out loud. Bruce sighed, rubbing a hand across his eyes before meeting Clint’s eyes. Worry and concern reflected back at Clint, doubling his own.

“If they are, things are about to get a lot more complicated.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is my fairy dust! Thank you so much for all the support on this journey so far!


	7. There's No Such Thing As Soul Mates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I say it every chapter but I just wanted to say it again: Thank you all for the amazing feedback! It's my fairy dust and I'm really happy this story is being so well received. This was a tricky chapter to write so I thank you for your patience! Enjoy!

“Agent Rumlow.” Brock started awake as the AI’s voice cracked through the dark room. “Wazzit?” He mumbled, flailing into a sitting position. “My apologies in waking you, sir,” Jarvis said, worry and tension thick through his artificial voice. “But I do believe Agent Barton is in need of assistance.”

“What?” Brock said, his sleep addled brain struggling to process what he was hearing. “I normally enlist Agent Romanoff with this, but as she is currently out of the Tower—,”

“Where is he?” Brock said, interrupting the AI as he slide out from under the covers. “The roof,” Jarvis said predictably as Brock pulled on sweatpants.

The elevator doors opened and Brock shivered as the cool night wind hit his bare skin. Then his heart dropped somewhere into the vicinity of his boots. Clint was literally perched on the edge of the roof, standing with his bare toes out over open air.

Brock swallowed thickly as he slowly made his way to the ledge, swinging wide as to not startle the archer. “Hey,” he said gently as he neared the blonde man. Clint didn’t respond, staring blankly down off the building. Brock slowly edged his way closer, stopping when he was a few feet from Clint. “Barton, what are you doing up here so late?” He said casually, struggling to keep his tone neutral.

Silence stretched between the two.

“You think anyone would care?” Clint said hoarsely, so quietly his voice almost disappeared with the wind. “What was that?” Brock said cautiously, forcing down the panic that was gripping his chest. “If I just…,” Clint flapped his hands, gesturing vaguely out over the long drop before adding a whistling noise followed by a splat sound.

Brock swallowed, finding his mouth dry as sandpaper. “Well, don’t think I’ll be scraping you off the pavement if you do,” Brock said, trying to go for humour and really hoping he wasn’t about to make things worse. For a second he thought he had, the look that Clint gave him. And then the archer huffed a weak chuckle.

“You’re terrible at this,” he said gruffly, hopping down from the ledge. “Yeah, sorry,” Brock said. “I wasn’t really gonna jump, you know,” Clint continued as he folded his legs gracefully to sit on the ground, back pressed against the ledge. “Well, you certainly scared the shit outta me,” Brock huffed, knees feeling a little wobbly as he sat next to the archer. “What the fuck was that?”

“ _Courting the Void_ ,” Clint said quietly.

“What?” Brock snapped, still feeling thoroughly rattled. Clint licked his lips nervously before explaining. “You ever see a train coming and just have this strange urge to step in front of it? Or when your standing on a tall building and you just get the weirdest urge to jump?”

Brock swallowed. He didn’t have the chance to comment as Clint kept talking in that . “Some people call it _Courting the Void_ ,” Clint continued. “Or the _Imp of the Perverse_ , depending on who you ask.” Brock frowned in confusion. Clint wrapped his arms around his knees as he continued to explain.

“The theory is that when you're told not to think about a particular thing, the thoughts are still going to infrequently occur. So even though you are consciously not thinking about something, the unconscious mind continues to think about it and then sometimes wires get crossed at those forbidden thoughts sneak out. Or something like that. Make sense?”

“Sure,” Brock said slowly, having absolutely no idea what the guy was talking about. Clint kept staring at the ground, that shatter-glass look in his eye that completely unnerved Brock. “Yeah, don’t really understand it either,” Clint said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Sorry Jarvis woke you,” the archer muttered, staring at his shoes. “Usually Tash deals with me when I’m like this.”

“It’s okay,” Brock said, not really knowing what to do next, or what Romanoff did in this situation. “Ummm….do you wanna talk about it?” he stumbled, not sure what more to say. Clint huffed, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. “You are really bad at this,” he said, still in that flat tone of voice that had unnerved Brock so much. “Yeah, sorry,” Brock winced. “ ’s okay,” Clint murmured. Although the night was warm, Brock could see the tremors that shivered through Clint’s body. “Come on,” he said, getting to his feet. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

“ ‘m fine,” Clint protested, but got to his feet all the same. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. Brock kept silent on the elevator trip back to his floor. He had known the man for just over a month now and he had never seen the archer like this. He was so quiet, so introverted, so unlike the boisterous and outgoing man he had gotten used to.

He bundled Clint up on the couch, wrestling the duvet from upstairs and tossed it fully over the archer. Clint didn’t even protest, just pulled the covers from his head, blonde hair awry and sticking out in every direction. Brock stood by the stove until the kettle boiled, making two mugs of hot chocolate because everyone knew chocolate fixed everything.

“Here,” he asked holding out one of the mugs to the archer. Clint started to take it and then froze mid reach. He just seemed to short circuit, his hand hovering in middle space. “You gonna take it or…?” Brock said, wiggling the mug in front of Clint’s face. His frown deepened as Clint’s breath hitched and his hand dropped numbly into his lap.

“Clint—,” Brock began but Jarvis seemed to have the answer. “I believe Agent Barton would prefer the other mug, sir.”

“What?” Brock said, glancing up at the ceiling. He hadn't quite broken himself of the habit of looking up whenever Jarvis spoke to him. “The other mug, sir,” the AI said patiently. Brock did as he was told, beyond puzzled. His eyebrows shot up as Clint reached up and took the other mug, eyes rooted firmly in his lap. “You wanna tell me what that was about?” he asked. Clint mumbled something under his breath, to quiet and garbled for Brock to understand. “Come again?” he asked.

“Blue,” Clint said louder. “I don’t like the colour blue.”

Brock glanced down at the mug he was currently holding, which was a splatter pattern of pale, dark, and ice blue. “Okay,” he said, really not understanding. “You want me to get a new mug?” Clint hesitated but nodded in the end, looking a little guilty.

Mission complete, Brock sat down in the arm chair across from the archer and waited. Clint would either tell him or not and either would be fine. He wouldn’t ask, regardless of the nagging curiosity. “You know how I was…,” Clint began, struggling to find the right words. “Two years ago and everything that…happened.”

“Yeah,” Brock said softly, taking pity on the archer. “His staff was blue. The crystal,” Clint said stiffly. Brock didn’t need to ask who he was. In this context there could only be one person.

"I remember everything," the blonde said softly. 

“I remember everything but its all…like tinged with blue. The memories, I mean. Sounds stupid but it’s true. Nat even said that my eyes were blue. Only when she snapped me out of it did they change back to normal." The archer paused, eyes staring into middle space as he was swept away by the memory. "I killed people," he whispered. "Good people. People that I knew. They had families, kids. People who loved them. And I killed them because a God got in my head and told me I had heart. How fucked is that?"

Brock had nothing he could say to that but felt like he should offer some comfort. He leaned forward in the chair, not quite sure what he was reaching for. The moment seemed to shake the archer from the stupor he had fallen into. "Anyways,” Clint said, swiping a hand across his eyes. “Sorry. It’s not normally a problem. The colour thing I mean, but…when I have bad days it’s just…difficult.”

“It’s fine,” Brock said. Clint sighed, bringing his knees up and resting his forehead against them. “Sorry,” he apologized again. “Sorry you had to deal with…this,” he gestured to all of him without even looking up. “I said it’s fine, shut up,” Brock said gruffly, standing to grab the TV remote before collapsing onto the couch beside the archer. He flicked the TV on, settling on some baking channel.

“You want a pop tart?” he offered, only half joking. “I’m newly stocked on vanilla ones.” Clint shook his head. “No you’re not,” he said, voice muffled by the covers. Brock frowned, glancing over his shoulder into the kitchen. “Did you…?” He started. “Maybe,” Clint mumbled into his knees.

“I’m gonna bolt that fucking vent closed,” Brock growled, sounding more annoyed than he really was. “That wouldn’t stop me,” Clint said, finally lifting his head, blinking a little owlishly. “Hawk my ass,” Brock grumbled. “More like a squirrel. Or a rat.”

“At least rats are smart,” Clint said mildly, taking a sip of his hot chocolate.

 

 

 

“And there we go,” Bruce said as he attached the last electrode from Brock’s head. “That feel okay?” Brock shrugged. “Sure. What's the point of this again?”

“I’m going to attempt to stimulate the damaged areas of your brain to promote repair,” Bruce explained, moving to the computer and beginning to type something in. “Huh,” was all Brock said. “You have any questions?” Bruce asked but Brock just shrugged. “Wouldn’t know where to begin,” he said with a chuckle. “I just shoot things, Doc. This is a bit beyond me.”

“Who’s shooting things?” a familiar voice drawled and Brock turned to see Clint strolling into the lab. “What’d you want, Barton?” he said, not too unkindly. “I’m bored,” Clint complained, dropping onto a stool across the table from Bruce. “Natasha got annoyed with me so sent me down here.”

“How thoughtful of her,” Bruce muttered, adjusting a few things before turning to Brock. “Okay, you ready?” Brock nodded and Bruce typed in something more. “Alright, how does it feel?”

“A little tingly,” Brock commented, feeling a weird buzzing sensation echoing through his skull. “Let me know the second anything changes or you feel any discomfort or pain,” Bruce said sternly. Brock smirked, performing a crisp solute to which Clint snorted rudely.

At some point the buzzing started getting louder. His palms were sweating and when he swallowed, he found that his mouth was bone-dry. “You okay over there?” Bruce asked with a frown. “Your heart rate is increasing.”

“I’m fine,” Brock said in reflex and then changed his mind. He was definitely not fine. “Or not,” he gasped, feeling a tight band grip his chest and squeeze. His hand went to his chest, the other hand white knuckling the arm of the chair.

“I can’t breathe,” he gasped.

“Whoah, whoah,” Clint said, starting for his seat. “I can’t breathe,” Brock gasped again, struggling to get air in around the tightening pressure around his chest. The buzzing in his ears turned into a roar as the corners of his vision blacked out and he felt himself pitching forward.

Everything was moving in slow motion now and he felt hands catching him and slowly lowering him to the ground. Voices buzzed around him, sounding concerned, but they were drowned out by the roaring.

Gradually one voice broke through the haze and it told him to breathe, just breathe. He felt a hand settle lightly on the back of his neck, tipping his head forward between his knees. The hand stayed there, a light pressure that was grounding without being entrapping.

Slowly, oh so slowly, his breathing evened and his heart stopped trying to escape his ribcage and the steel bands encircling his chest loosened.

“What the fuck?” Brock gasped, swatting away Clint’s hand which had been the steady pressure on his neck. “You had a panic attack,” Bruce said lightly and together he and Clint helped him off the floor and onto a nearby stool.

“What?” Brock exclaimed. “Why?”

“You tell us,” Clint said, leaning his hip against the table, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Is this something that happens often?” Bruce asked gently. “No,” Brock said, shaking his head. “Never.”

“Never?” Bruce asked, a little crease appearing between his eyebrows. “No,” Brock stated, taking a settling breath. “I was fine and then…I wasn’t. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Bruce said, flapping a hand in his direction. “How about we call it a day and try again tomorrow?”

“Whatever you say, Doc,” Brock got up from the stool, cracking his neck with a wince. “Hey, fisticuffs down in the gym?” Clint said, twirling a pencil through his fingers. “Yeah, sure,” Brock said, quietly surprised and happy that Clint seemed to know him so well already.

 

 

“Doctor Banner?” Jarvis said as Bruce started packing up the equipment. “What is it, Jarvis?” he said, coiling the electrodes neatly back in their case. “It may not be my place to divulge this information, however I believe under the circumstances—,”

“Yes?” Bruce prompted when the AI paused. “If I could direct your attention to the computer,” Jarvis said. Bruce glanced over at the screen to see a video feed pop up. He frowned, stepping closer, as he recognized Bucky and Steve.

Bucky was sitting on the floor, back pressed against the wall and palms clapped firmly over his eyes. Steve hovered nearby, down on one knee with his hands loosely and unthreateningly in front of him. “What am I seeing here, Jarvis?”

“Mr. Barnes is currently coming out of a panic attack, one that coincided exactly with Agent Rumlow’s episode.”

“I see,” was all Bruce said to that. The more things that continue to happen, the more Bruce’s suspicions were confirmed. He knew Clint thought the same. They had talked about it, albeit briefly. They just didn’t want to say it out loud because as soon as that happened, it became real and then they’d have to do something about it. And tell people. Mainly Steve. They’d have to tell Steve, which wasn’t something Bruce was looking forward to.

So he wanted to be, needed to be sure. One-hundred percent sure.

 

 

 

 

James cursed as the mug slipped from his fingers and smashed on the ground. He grimaced as sharp pains stabbed down his side and shoulder as the metal fingers spasmed and refused to respond. Shaking the hand violently usually helped but today it didn’t.

“Fuck,” James cursed under his breath. He had been avoiding this for a while now. Steve didn’t even know he was having issues with the arm. It had been damaged in the fight on the helicarrier. James had been dealing with it, but lately it'd been getting worse.

He didn’t want to ask Stark for help but there wasn't really any other choice now. He couldn't close the hand and the nerves were tingling and pinching painfully. “Hey Jarvis?” he asked. “Yessir?” the AI replied promptly. “Where’s Stark?”

“In the main lab sir.” James swallowed, really wishing Steve wasn’t overseas on a mission right now. “Is Bruce with him?” If Dr. Banner was there, he would be more willing to allow Stark to poke and prod at him. The doctor had a way of reining the other man in when he got too intense.

“Yessir.”

“Okay,” James said, heading towards the elevators before he could change his mind. He didn’t even have to say anything to Jarvis. The doors just closed and the elevator started moving without a prompt. He was out and into the hall before the doors fully opened. Stark and Banner both glanced up as he strode into the lab.

“It require maintenance,” James said stiffly.

“Come again?” Stark said with a raised eyebrow. As an answer James picked up the arm which had since become a dead weight against his side and dropped it down onto the table with a heavy clunk. He didn’t miss the look of barely concealed hunger spark in the man’s eyes as his eyes rove over the metal appendage. He also didn’t miss the scolding glare Banner sent Stark’s way either.

“It was damaged,” he said simply.

“I can see that,” Stark said, eyes never leaving the arm. He started as Bruce elbowed him in the ribs. “Right, let’s have a look.” He gestured to the reclining chair nearby. James swallowed, trying to steady his breathing as he sat down.

The reaction was immediate but James clenched his muscles and forced himself to lie back. “Just relax,” Bruce murmured, stepping up beside him. “I’d like to hook you up to a heart monitor if you don’t mind. That way we can keep a better eye on you and Tony will do nothing that makes you uncomfortable. Right, Tony?” Bruce sent a glare over James' head to the bearded scientist.

“Huh? Oh yeah, of course. One hundred percent. This is a comfy, safe, good vibes only zone,” Stark said, flapping a hand dismissively as he began pulling up schematics out of thin air around him. “May I?” James glanced over to the clip and lead the doctor held loosely in his hands.

With a stiff nod, James allowed the man to slip the clip over his finger. A steady if slightly fast beeping sounded quietly in the lab. James flinched violently as he felt a touch on his metal wrist. Stark slide back, hands raised non threateningly, eyes curious and intense. “You felt that? Like actually felt that?” He asked incredulously. "You have sensory receptors? Well, I guess you'd have to, considering-,"

“Tony,” Bruce scolded softly, which James was very grateful for. He had started to feel very overwhelmed and Bruce stepped in at exactly the right moment. “Sorry, sorry,” Tony amended. “I just wasn’t expecting it to have any sort of sensory perception.”

“Yeah, they wired it directly into my nervous system somehow,” James said, surprising himself and both men with the voluntary information. “It’s ummm…,” he swallowed, trying to find the words to describe what it felt like. “Like when you’re arm falls asleep and then you touch something. You can still feel it, but it’s numb. Muffled, you know? That's what it feels like.”

“Fascinating,” Stark murmured before seemingly shaking himself back into the present and the problem at hand. “Alright, can you move the fingers?” James tried and succeeded a little but the movement was uncoordinated and jerky. “Hmmmm, well that won't do. Jarvis?” Stark asked, tapping a finger against his lip. “Scanning now sir,” the AI said briskly.

“What are you doing?” James asked, not feeling anything which only made him more nervous. “You won’t feel a thing,” Stark said reassuringly, or at least what James assumed was an attempt at reassurance. “I need to get a look at how it all fits together before I start poking at it. I don’t want to make the problem worse or cause you any pain.”

Stark made a grabbing motion at a nearby Starkpad and then tossed it into the air beside him. A 3D scan of the arm appeared in the air. James watched in fascination and Stark turned it this way and that, pulling it apart into layers to see what was in side. He talked rapidly with Jarvis, occasionally throwing questions over to Bruce who answered them in that calm way of his.

“Okay, I think I see the problem,” Stark said, spinning back around to face James. “Something knocked the—,”

“Can you fix it?” James interrupted before the man could go into what would probably be a long and complicated explanation that he wouldn’t understand anyways. Stark made a face, seeming a little affronted. “Yes, I can fix it,” he said in a tone that scoffed at any other possible outcome.

“Good,” James said shortly.

Movement by the door caught his eye and he glanced over Bruce’s shoulder to the figure hovering in the doorway. The quiet beeping tripled in tempo as James felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of the dark haired man. “I can come back,” Brock began as all three of them turned to look. “No it’s alright,” Bruce began, then threw a quick, questioning look to James. “If it’s alright with you I’d really like to get the scans I need done.”

“It’s fine,” James said, feeling calmer than he had before. In fact, he felt more grounded then he had all day. Bruce threw a quick look to the heart monitor, something in his look changing as he scanned the readings displayed there. James hadn’t noticed before but his heart rate had slowed down again, even slower than it had been before.

“Okay, I’m going to open the panel on your wrist,” Stark warned as he carefully positioned James’ appendage on the chair’s armrest. James nodded, not looking and only just feeling said panel being popped out. He refused to look down at the displayed wires and inner workings of the mechanical arm.

His teeth clenched as Stark began to dig around in his wrist. It wasn’t that it necessarily hurt, it just felt…wrong. “You doing okay?” Stark asked quietly, pausing in his work. It was only then that James realized he had been white-knuckling the other arm rest with his right hand. He glanced up, seeing Brock watching him carefully. “I’m fine,” James said shortly, looking away from the other man’s calculating gaze.

“What a mess,” Stark muttered under his breath. “I mean look at this! Soviet innovation my ass.” The muttering continued and James did his best to just tone it out. He flinched again as Stark triggered one of the artificial tendons and his fingers spasmed. “Sorry,” Stark murmured, pushing said tendon to the side. “I think I found part of the problem but I believe the damage extends further up. I’ll need to get in there to be sure.”

James swallowed, moving stiffly to pull the shirt up over his head. With Stark’s assistance, he extracted the arm from the clothing. James tried to ignore the sharp inhale of breath as Stark’s eyes widened at the sight. “Butchers,” Stark muttered heatedly. James glanced up, surprised at the amount of anger and empathy in the scientist’s eyes. A part of him was intrigued to see that there was no pity reflected in the man’s dark eyes, only understanding and a soldering fury.

“Fucking butchers,” Stark snapped again. “Tony,” Bruce cautioned. The dark haired man said nothing more, but James could see the muscles in his jaw jumping as he physically stopped himself from commenting more.

James himself didn’t bother looking. He knew what he would see; the angry scars that wrapped around his shoulder where metal met flesh.  He didn’t need or want a reminder. It was one memory that he had yet to recover, the day he got the arm. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to remembering.

“Okay, little pinch,” Stark said as he popped out the plate along James’ bicep. He felt Stark go still beside him. “How much pain are you in?” the man asked softly. “And don’t lie and give me some super soldier macho bullshit because the way they've wired this shit into your nervous system can only be one step down from constant agony,” he added as James opened his mouth to do just that. He snapped his mouth shut with a snap, eyes for some reason drawn to Brock.

The dark haired man sat on the other side of a nearby table, hooked up to some sort of machine, but his eyes hadn’t left James. “It’s never been comfortable,” James confessed, his eyes not leaving Brock. “Jesus,” he heard Stark mutter beside him. The scientist cleared his throat. “How do you compensate for the weight?” That James didn't have an answer for and he said so. 

“They reinforced your shoulder blade.” James saw Brock’s mouth move in time with those words but it took a minute to realize that it was him that was speaking. “Or so they told me,” Brock amended. “Shoulder blade, spine, and ribs."

“Makes sense,” Stark muttered, beginning to poke around inside James’ bicep. He hit something that cause a spark of white hot pain to radiate down the arm, making his fingers clench with a wince of metal. James didn't even think, he just reacted.

The arm whipped out, catching Stark full across the chest and sending him spinning across the room. James sat bolt upright, eyes wide and unseeing as memories flashed across his eyes.

 

  
_Sitting bare-cheating in the chair, a scientist tinkering with the arm just as stark had been doing. The arm snapping out on it’s own accord, sending the scientist sliding across the floor._

_A half dozen men pointing their weapons at his heart. A man with a wicked scar wrapping around his jaw. A man in a blue suite backhanding him across the face._

 

  
It was unsettlingly like his current situation and that scared him. When he blinked however, it wasn’t a blonde man in a blue suit crouching in front of him. It was dark hair and reassuring eyes and a familiar voice telling him to stand down. That he was safe and that there was no threat and to just breathe.

He blinked, focusing on Brock’s face as the man crouched a few feet in front of him, hands spread wide and open in a non-threatening way. "You good?" Brock asked calmly, eyes never leaving his. James nodded, swallowing dryly. "I'm sorry," he whispered. There was a pause and a look that James didn't understand flashed across the other man's eyes.

"It's okay. You done for the day or can you let Stark finish?" the former HYDRA agent asked in that same calming, no-bullshit tone that James really appreciated. He licked his lips, sniffing a deep breath. "Just get it over with," he muttered. Brock nodded to Stark who had since picked himself off from the floor. "You feel any discomfort, you tell me and we stop immediately," Stark said sternly as he rolled himself back

James flinched as he felt the tool dig into the arms bicep again. He didn't even notice Brock hadn't gone to join Bruce again until he felt a light tapping against the top of his right hand. "Easy does it," Brock murmured, voice was low enough that James knew it was for his ears only. He glanced down and extracted himself from he finger sized dents in the chair arm.

It was only then that James realized he had been speaking Russian the whole time and hadn't even noticed. What's more, Brock had replied in the same language without missing a beat. "You speak Russian?" James asked, the English words feeling strange and forced.

The dark haired man grinned. "Welcome back," he drawled and James blushed. "Did that use to happen often?" he asked hesitantly. Brock shrugged, smile widening a fraction. "Often enough that I decided to learn Russian," he drawled. An odd look crossed the man's face, reminding James of when he had a memory resurface. "You know what you used to call the STRIKE team when you were frustrated?"

James shook his head, interest peaked. He remembered little of his time with the STIKE team but those were memories more easily triggered, easier to remember although not all pleasant.

" _бесполезные, пискливые котята_ ," Brock said with a smirk.

That startled a chuckle from James, one that made Bruce look up with raised eyebrows.  _"Useless, mewling kittens,_ " Brock tossed over his shoulder for the scientist's benefit. Bruce chuckled, shaking his head. "Jesus, I remember this one time...," and Brock went on to tell a story of when STRIKE got snowed in on a mission.

James was so focused on the dark haired man, his words sparking little memories here and there, that the former assassin didn't even feel Stark digging around in the arm. In fact, he didn't even clue into the fact that the procedure was done until Stark clicked the panel back into place. It was only then did James realize that the entire thing had been a distraction tactic.

"Here," Stark said, dropping a wrench into the metallic palm. James' hand clench automatically, digits closing smoothly around the tool. He glanced up to Stark's slightly smug face and nodded. "Thanks," he said. "And sorry about before."

"All good, goldfish," the scientist drawled, righting the rolling stool. "It'll take more then a little shove to dent me. Oh, don't thank me for this," Stark added smugly. "Thank me for the upgrade I'm currently working on." The man kept talking but James wasn't listening anymore.

There was a roaring in his ears that was growing louder. He should have known that this would happen. He knew what Stark was like. Like father, like son. Howard had been just the same. The breath caught in his chest and it hurt. That name sparked something deep in his chest; a rolling sensation of guilt, and shame, and fear.

He felt like self control was hanging precariously on a thread, just ready to snap. The muscles along his jaw spasmed as teeth ground against each other. The roaring in his ears threatened to drown everything else out. The ice was back and had begun to claw it’s way up into his throat, strangling, silencing.

A light tap at his hand once again drew him out of a spiral.

He glanced over to the dark haired agent, who raised an eyebrow in a silent question. James didn't feel like he could use words in that moment, but the look in his eyes seemed to be enough for his former handler.

"Stark, shut up," Brock said sharply. "Excuse me?" Stark began blustering, spoiling for a fight, but then Jarvis interrupted in the nick of time and informed the man that Captain Rogers and his team required his assistance.

With once last withering look at Brock, Stark hopped to his feet and began nattering away at Jarvis as he strode form the lab. He passed Clint as the archer sauntered into the lab. "Where's Tin Man off to in such a hurry?" He drawled. "Steve called him out," Bruce said mildly, closing down a bunch of 3D files.

"What?" Clint exclaimed. "What about me?"

" _You_ are benched do to concussion until further notice," Bruce said dryly, closing the last of the files. Clint rolled his eyes but didn't protest further. James was almost impressed. It must be a bad concussion if the blonde wasn't arguing even a little bit. "What's the plan, then?" Clint said, hoisting himself up onto the table, mindless of the papers and equipment stacked there. "Movie night? Games night? Pizza night? Oooh, movie and pizza night with games!"

James snorted as Brock rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh at the man's antics. He caught Brock glancing away nervously, most likely feeling the outsider in this little group. If only he knew....

Subtly, so the other two wouldn’t see, James reached out and tapped a finger lightly against the back of Brock’s wrist. Dark eyes snapped up to meet his, startled and a little curious. James just smirked. ”Alright,” Brock said slowly, tearing his eyes from James’ with obvious reluctance.

"But you're buying, Barton."

 

Hours later and the four of them were sprawled out across Bruce’s modest living room. Clint had immediately sprawled out across the love seat and Bruce had taken the plush armchair, which left the short couch for Brock and James.

Brock had curled up against the far side, bracing his feet on the coffee table and giving James as much space as he could. James appreciated the effort but for some reason Brock’s presence made him far less nervous than many of the others.

They gorged themselves on Chinese food instead of pizza, at Bruce’s insistence, and then settled in more a movie. Clint had suggested on The Fifth Element and while much of it didn’t make sense to James, he found himself enjoying it. It was however a long movie and he found himself nodding off a little. After nodding off once again, James woke to find he had curled up against the arm rest. A blanket had been laid over him and his feet were tucked under the side of a warm leg.

James glanced to the other end of the couch where the dark haired agent was sitting calmly, chin propped against his palm and looking fully engrossed in the movie. That man was a mystery to James. All he knew was that he felt safe in the man’s presence. He knew he could trust the man which went against ever logical, rational though in his head.

Or maybe that was just Steve talking.

James knew the man beside him and committed terrible crimes. He had helped a secret organization originally founded by Nazis to come within inches of taking over the world. He had not only allowed but contributed to James being brainwashed and tortured for years. He had almost killed Steve and Natasha.

Yet James remembered the man being kind. He had memories of seemingly unending patience. A grounding presence that would get him calmed down, not with drugs and pain, but with soft words and a gentle hand.

James couldn't always rely his own memories, so he didn’t trust on what he remembered of the man. He trusted what the man’s presence made him feel, and right now James felt comfortable and safe.

A loud bang echoed from the speakers, making him flinch. Then James felt warm fingers wrap comfortingly around his ankle. James started, glancing back down the couch to the dark haired agent. The man must have caught James staring because as he watched a slight red flush crept up Brock’s neck and James felt the gentle touch disappear.

That wouldn’t do.

He dug his toes under the man’s thigh, wiggling them a little. He saw Brock’s lips quirk ever so slightly and a moment later the hand was back, thumb crushing gently across his anklebone.

James tucked away a smile of his own and focused on the movie where vey ugly pig-like creatures were currently fighting a red-haired woman on a spaceship for possession of some strange rocks.

Safety and comfort were alien feelings to him now, and were few and far between. So regardless of the past crimes of the man beside him, James was going to take comfort however he could.

Right now, that comfort was Brock Rumlow.

 

 

 

 

  
Clint may be known as the jokester, the prankster, the one who took nothing seriously. He cracked jokes and left inappropriate notes pinned to briefing files. He stole people’s food and pretended to fall asleep during briefings and never mention to Steve about comms protocol.

But on top of all that, Clint was observant.

Being a spy and an assassin, he had to be observant. The only reason he was still alive was because of his observation skills, in reading body language and tone. So it didn’t slip by Clint the way Barnes and Rumlow had exchanged looks in the lab. It didn’t skip his notice when Brock covered a sleeping Barnes with a nearby blanket, or the hand the former HYDRA agent had no doubt wrapped around the other’s ankle in comfort.

He watched the two over his mug of coffee as Korben Dallas placed Leeloo in the middle of the circle and convinced her that love was beautiful and so was humanity. Barnes was asleep, feet now fully stretched out across Rumlow’s lap. The dark haired man hadn’t protested when the younger stretched himself out across him. If anything, Rumlow seemed to be struggling to hide a smile.

As the credits rolled, Clint watched as Rumlow reached across and gently tapped the kid on the back of the hand. James blinked away, coming back to consciousness far more gently than Clint had ever seen before. Now that he thought about it, Clint couldn't even remember the last time he’d seen Barnes fall asleep around other people.

The tapping on the hand also seemed to be a signal between the two men. Clint had just seen it earlier that day in the lab, but it had been Barnes doing it to Rumlow. He stayed in his seat, watching as Barnes yawned and Rumlow made his excuses and together the two stumbled towards the elevators. Upon arriving, they split into separate elevators.

As the two men stepped into the elevators, completely out of sight from each other, they yawned. In unison, cracking their necks to the right and left at the same time. Clint sighed as the elevator doors closed. He hardly had any doubt now.

In some ways he had hoped to be wrong. He had hoped that he and Bruce were just reading into things too much, but there was just too much evidence now. Even if he hadn’t seen the video footage Jarvis had shown Bruce, of the synchronized panic attacks, he would have guessed it anyways.

It was the way that the two men looked at each other, especially when the other wasn’t. There was something secret tucked deep into their gaze, something that Clint was sure they themselves weren’t even aware of.

The archer sighed again, glancing over at Bruce. The man had been staring thoughtfully into his own mug for the past half an hour. Reluctantly, he glanced up to meet Clint’s gaze, chewing his lip thoughtfully before taking a breath.

“We need to tell Steve.”

 

 

 

 

“Hey Steve,” Bruce called out as the aforementioned blonde man strode through the communal floor of the Tower. The way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly at the mention of his name gave away how tired he was. Bruce felt a little bad, cornering him like this so soon after getting back.

But they had already left it too long.

“We need to talk,” he said softly, throwing a glance to where Clint had come up beside him. “It’s about Barnes.” Steve’s brow immediately furrowed and he turned to face them. “What happened?” he demanded. “Is he okay? What happened? Did he hurt anyone?”

“Easy,” Bruce said with a raised hand, forestalling Steve from spiralling too far. “It’s nothing bad, not really. It’s just…complicated.” He hesitated. At that moment Natasha and Tony strode in as well, eyes and gate weary. “What happened?” Natasha said, eyes immediately wary as they took in Bruce and Clint and then Steve. Bruce threw a glance to Clint, who shrugged in a way that seemed to say ‘They’ll only find out eventually’. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this,” Bruce hesitated and then took a breath.

“I think—we think, that Barnes and Rumlow might be Soul Bonded.”

Silence.

Silence echoed so loudly across the room that Bruce was sure he’d be able to hear a mouse sneeze six floors down. Steve himself looked like someone had smacked him upside the head with a crowbar. His mouth hung slightly open, like he had forgotten what he was going to say mid sentence. Natasha didn’t look all that surprised but Bruce was used to her playing it close to the vest.

“That’s funny,” Tony said, predictably being the first to break the stunned silence. “That’s funny because it’s a joke right? Wow, Brucie. That’s some serious 50 Shades Stockholm kinky, let me tell you.”

“Tony!” Steve hissed, finally shaking free the semi-catatonic state he had slipped into. “Oh come on, Cap,” Tony blustered. “You really think Hydra Happy is Soul Bonded to your long lost Terminator?”

“No, I don’t,” Steve said stiffly, turning back to face Bruce and Clint. “It’s ridiculous and to even suggest it is—,”

“We think they’re dream sharing,” Clint blurted out, causing Steve to pull up short. The blonde’s bright eyes flicked from Clint to Bruce and back again. “You think they’re what?” he explained quietly.

Bruce stifled a wince. He knew that kind of tone. Steve was furious, beyond furious, and he was trying to hide it. To control his temper, which was on the edge of exploding if the way his hand where white-knuckled into fists by his sides was any indicator. “Rumlow has dreamt of ice since he was a kid,” Bruce explained rationally. “You said so yourself that Barnes had been having dreams he was convinced weren't his.”

“Bucky’s memories often resurface through dreams. You know that,” Steve snapped. “It was probably just something new that scared him. Or it could have been just a good old fashioned nightmare. He certainly has suffered enough trauma for a lifetime supply.”

“There’s more, Steve,” Clint said quietly. Tony for his part had decided to just shut up and watch. Natasha was leaning casually against the counter, but her eyes were sharp as they snapped from one man to the other.

“Jarvis?”

“If I may, sir,” the AI said, ever polite. “The other day when Mr. Barnes had that panic attack in the living room, Agent Rumlow experienced similar sensations of deep anxiety while in the lab with Agent Barton and Dr. Banner.”

“That’s classic Transference, Steve,” Bruce reasoned, slipping into his scientist mode. He saw Tony perk up a bit, intent and listening to his every word. Tony had always found the concept of Soul Bonding and the symptoms of it fascinating.

“Transference,” Bruce explained, seeing Steve’s blank-feeling stare. It was possible Steve didn;t know the symptoms. Soul Bonding was just being discovered in the 1940s and no real breakthroughs were made until long after Steve had gone into the ice. “The transfer of physical and/or emotional sensations from one Bonded to the other, specifically in times of heightened—,”

“I know what transference is,” Steve snapped, discrediting Bruce’s previous suspicions. “But it’s just a coincidence. A strange one,” he amended, seeing Clint opening his mouth to argue. “I’ll give you that but it still doesn't prove anything."

The next objection didn’t come from Clint or even Bruce. It actually came from Jarvis. “When I showed Mr. Barnes the music room, he played a song which coincided with Dr. Banner witnessing Agent Rumlow humming the same song.” Bruce could see Steve’s jaw working. The evidence beginning to stack up against him but Bruce knew

Steve wasn’t about to just accept that his long-thought dead best friend was soul bonded to one of the men who helped imprison and brainwash him for years. “Soul Bonds are rare, like one in a million rare. And what about Projections?” Steve argued, not even close to giving up yet. “It’s not a full bond unless there is evidence of Projections.”

“The music. Rumlow humming the song Barnes was playing—,” Clint began but Steve interrupted him swiftly. “That is barely a Projection and you know it,” he growled. “And if there is?” Bruce said softly. He waited until he had Steve’s full attention back before continuing. “If they display signs of full blown Projections?”

“They won’t,” Steve said stiffly.

“I don’t have to remind you,” Bruce said hesitantly. “That it is illegal to keep a bonded pair apart once they’re proven to be—,”

“Nothing is proven!” Steve snapped, interrupting Bruce once again. “I don’t care what you two think. There is no way that Bucky bonded to the man who helped brainwash and torture him for the past seventy years!”

“I don’t know man,” Clint drawled, the only one brave or stupid enough to follow up an outburst like that from Steve Rogers. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with the guy. He may be a selfish douchebag but I think he looked out for the kid the best he could. And he’s about as fucked up in the head as Barnes by what HYDRA did to him.”

When no once else said anything, Clint just shrugged. “I’m just saying, they get along really well. Like really well. Barnes isn’t scared of him—,” Clint trailed off, realizing what he had just revealed. No one said a word. No one dared breath as Steve turned to stare at Clint and if looks could kill the archer would be stone cold on the ground in a second.

“What?” Steve said quietly, so quietly that Bruce wasn’t even sure he said anything.

“We…uh…we may have all,” Clint blustered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Ha a…movie night,” he finally confessed. “While you were away.”

Silence once again lay heavy over the group. “You what?” Steve whispered harshly. “Steve listen,” Bruce tried but Steve was done. “No, I am done listening!” the blonde snapped, rounding on the scientist.

“You have the rest of the week to finish whatever tests and scans you want and then Rumlow is going to the Raft.”

“Steve, you can’t just—,”

“Watch me!” Steve snarled, whipping on Clint so viciously that the archer’s weight actually shifts back a millimetre. After another beat the man turned on his heel and stalked down the hallway towards the elevators without another glance back.

“Well that went well,” Tony said. “Good work you two.” He clapped a hand on Bruce’s shoulder on passing, letting Bruce know that they would be talking about this more in depth later. Bruce cast a look at Natasha, seeing Clint do the same.

As usual, the woman gave nothing away. She sat with her arms crossed over her chest, a thoughtful look in her eye. “Don’t look at me,” she drawled, seeing both men turning on her. “What do you think?” Bruce asked, honestly curious as to what the assassin turned spy thought. “I’m not sure yet,” she said simply.

“It’s the real thing, Nat,” Clint said softly. She looked at them both for a long moment before shrugging her shoulders elegantly.

“You don't have to convince me,” she sighed. “You have to convince him.” She pointed down the hallway that Steve had only moments ago disappeared down. Clint and Bruce exchanged a a glance. Clint decided to sum the entire encounter up quite nicely with a only two words.

"Well, shit."

 

 

 


	8. Show Me The Damaged Parts Of You

  
_Hands shoving him roughly into a rickety chair. A towel wrapped around his face, pulling his head back. The chair tipping backwards._

_Water pouring across his face, running into his nose and mouth. Into his lungs._

_Choking him. Drowning him._

 

Brock woke with a gasp. Sweat made his shirt cling to his back as his chest heaved, sucking in air that had been denied to him in the dream. He had fallen asleep only once again to be back in that small cement room. He fucking hated that dream. Probably because it wasn’t a dream at all.

He sat up with a shiver, a shaky hand wiping damp hair back from his forehead. There was no way he was getting any more sleep tonight. He slipped out and shrugged on a hoody. Yawning, he padded into the elevator completely intent on going down to the gym to beat the shit outta something. Once inside however, Brock found himself inexplicably draw to a different location.

"Roof," he said gruffly.

The elevator began to hum below his bare feet as he was whisked up. The rough roofing scrapped at his feet as Brock made his way towards the edge of the building. The wind whipped around him as he spotted a lone figure silhouetted against the lights of the city.

"Hey," James said as Brock approached, unsure if he was intruding or not. The man was perched on the ledge, feet dangling over open air. "What is it with snipers and heights?" He grumbled, settling for leaning on the ledge next to the other man. "I mean Barton makes sense. It's in the name, ' _Hawkeye_ '. You have no excuses."

James' lips quirked with the ghost of a smile. "It's peaceful," the younger man said, staring out over the rooftops. "Yeah, I guess it is," Brock agreed softly. They sat in silence for a while before Brock cleared his throat, breaking it. "Couldn't sleep?" he asked. James' shoulders shrugged as he took a breath. "Nightmares," was the soft reply. Brock nodded. He understood that all too well. "Yeah, me too."

James sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I feel like I'm going crazy," he mumbled. Brock waited patiently as the younger man struggled to find the words. "I keep having this dream and...I don't think it's mine." Brock felt his eyebrows raise at the confession and James flushed. "See, crazy," he muttered.

"That's not crazy," Brock said immediately, even though he couldn't help think it was a little weird. James just gave him a look. “Okay, maybe a little,” he admitted, causing the younger man to smirk before turning to stare back down at the street below. "Steve's convinced that it's just a repressed memory," James continued, much to Brock's surprise. He had assumed that would be the end of the conversation. "But it's not. And it's not just a nightmare. I just...I don't know," James sighed, finally giving up on trying to have it make sense.

"Have you talked to anyone about this?" Brock asked, honestly curious. James huffed a laugh. "You mean like my shrink?" he said, a bitter edge to his voice. "Well, yeah," Brock said, not taking offence to the sharpness of James' tone. "Isn't that what you pay him for? To help you sort this shit out."

"I don't pay for shit," James said, the bitterness thickening in his voice, now tinged with more than a little guilt. "I'm a fucking charity case."

"You and me both, kid," Brock huffed. He tried not to squirm as James turned pale ice-blue eyes to look at him. There was age beyond the man's years reflected in them, an endless war of suffering and strength. "How do you do it?" James asked softly. "How do you deal with everything so well?"

Brock barked a harsh laugh. "No seriously," James pressed. "You've got it completely together and I'm just...," he bite the words off, swallowing thickly. Brock heaved a heavy breath. A small part of him was tempted to just laugh it off, to say some witty sarcastic quip and then change the subject. But another part of him felt like he had to be honest.

"I guess maybe it's because I still don't know what they wanted me to forget," he said with a shrug. "And the rest...," he trailed off. It was a dangerous path the conversation had wandered upon. He now stood at the crossroads. He could either change the subject and remain on safe ground, or take a chance and bare his truth and risk being thrown off the building.

"I'm not like you," Brock said softly. "I wasn't forced into anything. I joined HYDRA of my own free will. And it doesn't matter that I eventually came to see what they truly stood for. I didn't do anything about it. I was a coward," he continued, staring down at the city to avoid accidentally meeting James' eyes. He was worried what he would see there. "I took the easiest road and I didn't care who I hurt. I was ambitious and angry at the world and look where it got me."

A heavy silence fell between the two men. Brock took a breath, shivering a little as the wind tugged at his hoody and his hair.

"And now?"

Brock turned to the dark haired man in surprise. He found no hate, no disgust in the kid's eyes. Only open curiosity. "What are you now?" James asked. Brock thought about it for a minute, opting to reply as simply and as truthfully as he could.

"Tired," he said quietly.

He could feel the weight of the other man’s gaze and cleared his throat self-consciously. “Fucking freezing,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around himself. “You hungry?” Brock asked, not wanting to stay outside anymore but for a reason he couldn't explain not wanting to part company with the younger man yet.

James shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “I could eat.”

And that was how Brock found himself flipping bacon and grilled cheese sandwiches while James napped on the couch, Planet Earth played quietly on the TV. It was fucking surreal. If someone had told him that this was how his life would turn out, Brock would have laughed in their face. Maybe checked them into a psychiatric facility.

But everything considered, things weren’t so bad.

Brock flipped the last sandwich up onto a plate and turned off the stove. He grabbed the two plates and made his way around to the other side of the couch. The kid’s muscles went ridged and his eyes flew open as Brock set the plate down. Brock watched as the wild, hectic look slowly faded as James recognized where he was and who he was with. “How long was I out?” James muttered, wiping sleep from his eyes as he sat up.

“Maybe twenty minutes,” Brock murmured, taking a seat on the other end of the couch. James sighed, scratching a hand through his shaggy hair as he picked up the plate. “More bad dreams?” Brock asked gently.

James nodded. “It’s always bad dreams,” he said with a tired sigh. “It’s always fucking something. Matt says that it’ll get easier but it’s not.”

“Therapy works, man,” Brock said encouragingly. He knew only too well the discouragement and frustration that came with the territory. He had experienced it himself, had stood beside Jack while he went through the same thing. “You just gotta give it time.”

James huffed, shaking his head. “Well, I’ve been giving it time. And it’s not working. I don’t like talking about it anyways.” Brock took a bite of grilled cheese, stalling for time to find the right words. “Some things take longer than others,” he insisted. “And sometimes it takes a long fucking time.”

“And what would you know about it?” James said harshly. Brock froze mid chew. The other man flushed with embarrassment and looked away. “Shit, I’m sorry,” James said, back-peddling. “That was stupid to say, I didn’t mean—,”

“I was on an op in Sudan,” Brock interrupted. “It…well, it went bad.” He set his plate down carefully, gaze lost somewhere in the middle of the room as his mind wandered back to that godforsaken place. “Really bad. Took them almost three weeks to find me.”

This was certainly not something he was very open about. No one outside his therapist and Jack knew the full story. It had taken him a long time to get back to a place where he was okay again and now that he had, talking about it just felt like reopening old wounds. But for some reason, Brock felt like this was exactly what the kid needed to hear. He wasn’t sure why, he just knew. If he had been looking, Brock would have seen the flash of recognition and empathy in James’ pale eyes. As it was he only heard the words, spoken so softly but there was no way to make those words gentle.

“They tortured you.”

“Yeah,” Brock breathed, staring down at his hands. “Messed me up good. For a long time. I felt weak, you know? Like I should have been able to handle it better. Deal with it faster. Eventually, I was barely sleeping because the night terrors got so bad. ”

He sniffed, shifting uncomfortably. He hadn't talked about it like that to anyone before and yet here he was, spilling his guts to the man who he held imprison and brainwash like they had known each other forever.

He pulled himself out of the memories before they swept him away. “Anyways,” he continued gruffly. “Jack finally kicked my ass to therapy. Tricked me into the car and practically dragged me into the office but…it helped. Not right away and it took awhile, but it did help. You gotta talk about shit or else it just eats you up from the inside.”

Quiet settled over the suite. Brock glanced across to the other man. He could see James’ jaw muscles working as the kid stared numbly into middle-space. Then he asked a question, one that hit Brock hard and low in the chest.

“Whose Jack?”

This was one thing Brock was not ready to talk about, especially considering who else was currently residing under this very roof. It was too fresh, too painful. Brock was just grateful they hadn't crossed paths, because he wasn't entirely sure what he would do if they did.

“Doesn’t matter,” Brock said gruffly. “He’s dead now anyways.”

“I’m sorry,” James said softly into the silence that followed Brock’s declaration. “Yeah, me too kid,” Brock said quietly. Seemingly unsure what else to say, James leaned forward and picked up a sandwich.

“’s really good,” he mumbled around a big bite. Brock smiled softly. “Mama Rollins’ family recipe,” he drawled, ignoring the little twinge in his chest. “Jack’s mother,” he explained at James’ raised eyebrows. “When we were younger, she would make it every Sunday when we were home on leave.”

“You were in the military together?” James asked, taking another bite. “Yeah,” Brock said, a small smile tugging at his lips at the memory. “Met when we were both too young and stupid to know how young and stupid we were. Climbed the ranks together, were recruited to SHIELD together. Hell, we even lived together.”

Brock pulled up short, stealing a glance at James who was watching with a knowing look in his eye. “You sneaky bastard,” he accused. The kid’s lips twitched. “Sometimes you just gotta talk about shit,” he said mildly.

“Maybe it’s time you took the same advice,” Brock shot back, feeling a little bad at the look that flickered through the kid’s eyes. “Yeah maybe,” James muttered, shoving the last of the grilled cheese in his mouth and refusing to say another word.

Brock decided not to push the subject any more, instead turning his attention back to learning about the wrinkle-lipped free-tailed bats that lived in Deer Cave in Borneo.

 

 

Two days later as Brock moved through his morning yoga routine, Jarvis came in over the comms. “Agent Rumlow, I require your assistance.” Brock frowned at the worry laced through the artificial voice.

“What is it, Jarvis?” he asked, getting to his feet with a grimace. He had pulled his hamstring sparring with Clint the day before and it was still sore. “Mr. Barnes is currently having a panic attack and with Captain Rogers and the entire team out of the tower, you are the only resident qualified to assist.”

“Starting to feel like a babysitter here, J,” Brock grumbled to hide the immediate rush on worry that spiked in his chest as he made his way into the elevator. The doors opened up onto Steve’s floor and Brock stepped out cautiously. “Where, Jarvis?” he asked softly, in case James was close by. He didn’t want to startle him.

“Kitchen sir,” was Jarvis’ equally quiet reply. Brock made his way into the kitchen, now purposefully making his footsteps loud and deliberate so James knew he was coming. He rounded the corner and slowed.

James was sitting on the floor, back pressed up against the lower cupboards like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His head was in his hands, fingers gripping at his long hair hard enough that his knuckles were white. His breaths were coming out in short, strangled pants.

Brock remembered dealing with the Solider when he was like this once. They had gotten separated from the rest of the team and trapped in a foxhole out in the middle of nowhere. Left too long off the ice and without a wipe, the Soldier’s memories had started to return. It hadn’t been pretty and Brock came out of that encounter with a split lip, two loose teeth, and a fractured orbit. Needless to say, he hoped this time would be different.

“Hey kid,” he said softly, padding further into the kitchen. James gave no indication of having heard him. Not wanting to crowd him, Brock settled for crouching a few feet away. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

A mumbled bit of nonsense was all Brock got as James’ hands clenched tighter. “What was that?” Brock asked patiently. James said nothing, just slammed his head back into the cupboard door once, twice. “Hey, hey, hey,” Brock protested, sliding closer to slip his hand between James’ head and the cupboard.

As soon as the back of James’ head connected with his palm, Brock was grabbed by the front of the shirt and slammed into the adjacent cupboards of the kitchen island. The breath rushed out of his lungs on impact, hand flying up to clasp around the cold metallic hand that was pinned across his chest. The plates in the arm whined as James stared wildly at him. “You in there, kid?” he asked quietly.

“I killed them,” James whispered.

“What?” Brock blinked.

“I killed them,” James said again. The prosthetic whirred as James let him go and fell back against the cupboard again. “I killed them.”

“Okay, deep breath. Just breath,” Brock soothed. The words died on his tongue as James looked back up at him. The wild, wrecked look in the kids eyes was like a punch to Brock's stomach.

“I killed them,” James said in a hard, flat sounding voice that reminded Brock of the Solider. “They told me to make it look like an accident so I ran them off the road and into a tree.” Brock swallowed stiffly, sitting in silence as James continued. “He drank a lot so it was a plausible scenario. Drunk driver. But the crash wasn't fatal. Not even close.”

“It's not your fault,” Brock said gently but James didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes were unfocused and far away. “I knew him,” he said softly. “I had never met her but I knew him. I took Stevie to an unveiling of his hover car the night before I shipped out. He even designed me a custom rifle during my time with the Commandos.”

“Jesus,” Brock whispered, finally understanding. The kid was talking about Howard fucking Stark. The Winter Soldier assassinated Howard Stark and his wife. “Now you get it,” James said, eyes flicked up to Brock’s, a flicker of fear hidden deep in the blue irises. “What am I going to do now?”

“You don't have to do anything,” Brock said immediately, leaning forward a little. “It wasn't your fault.”

Brock could see the snap in an instant. The heat that sparked in those pale eyes, the jaw muscles jumping as the kid ground his teeth together. This was what had made the Soldier so dangerous to work with; the unpredictability. The quick switch between frozen and violent and then back again. Never knowing what would set him off or make him shut down. 

“Bullshit!” James growled. “I murdered his fucking parents! He's designing me a new prosthetic arm when I used this one to beat his father to death.” His breath was coming out in harsh pants, his lips twisted into a nasty snarl. “Didn't even need it for his mother,” he continued brutally. “I can still remember what her throat felt like under my hand.”

“Don't do this to yourself,” Brock tried, seeing the kid starting to spiral into a hole. “Why the fuck not?” James interrupted. “I'm a fucking monster. I deserve worse.”

“Bullshit,” Brock growled, leaning forward even more. He was’t about to let the man spin himself into a pit of self-hatred like this. “You are not to blame. For any of it. You were not in control.”

As quickly as he had snapped, James shut down. Something shuttered across his face. The ice crept back into his eyes, the cold making them seem even paler. “I could have fought harder,” James said in that flat, inflectionless voice of the Soldier. “Should have fought harder.” 

“You did, kid,” Brock said, softly yet firmly. “Believe me, you fought tooth and nail.”

“Still it wasn't enough.”

Brock sighed, sliding closer until he sat beside James yet still facing him. He reached up, slow and steady, to clasp a hand to the side of James’ neck, thumb nestling along the side of his jaw. He could feel the muscles jumping under his touch.

Slowly, ever so slowly, James relaxed into his touch. He slumped forward and Brock drew the kid against him. His hand slid to cup the back of James’ head as the kid buried his face against Brock’s shoulder. He felt a hand fist in the back of his hoody and James’ breath hitched.

Brock wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that but eventually James stopped trembling and when he pulled away, Brock let him. James’ eyes were dry, but red as he scrubbed a hand down his face. He sucked in a shaky breath, leaning back against the cupboards.

“Has anyone talked to you about exposure therapy?” Brock said carefully. He didn’t want to spook James or push him too fast too soon. As it was James just shook his head. “Well, it’s where you return to the site of a trauma,” Brock explained slowly. “It can help you deal with the memories or trigger repressed ones.”

“Sounds awful,” James said flatly. Brock chuckled. “Yeah, it’s not much fun. But it does help.” James turned knowing eyes to meet his. “Personal experience?”

Brock shook his head. “No ah, not this time. But someone I knew.” James seemed to accept that and sniffed, pushing the hair back out of his face. “I don’t know where it happened though,” he said softly in the the silence. “I can’t remember.”

“What’s the first thing you do remember?” Brock asked, feeling he had to push this just a little further. He wasn’t sure what went on in those therapy sessions of James’, but he had a feeling there wasn’t much talking. At least on the kid’s side of it.

If Brock had blinked, he would have missed the minuscule flinch that flickered across James’ face. “Waking up,” he said flatly. “Words that…,” he bite himself off, swallowing the words. Brock waited but the kid said nothing else. “You remember where?” He thought the kid wouldn’t answer him, but was surprised once again by how much James seemed to trust him.

“Siberia.”

 

 

 

 

“I don't like this,” Steve said in a hushed voice as he and Bucky made their way through the run down and abandoned HYDRA facility. “You said that already,” Bucky drawled, turning smoothly to scan his rifle down a side hallway.

“Frequently,” Natasha muttered as she passed them to take over point. “Look,” Steve tried once again, moving closer to Bucky so his voice didn’t carry to the others. “I don’t want to seem unsupportive but you could have at least let us sweep the facility first.”

“I’m not helpless Steve,” Bucky ground out between clenched teeth, turning icy eyes to meet Steve’s. “Stop treating me like a goddamn child.” And with that he stormed off after Natasha without even a glance back.

“He’s got a point Cap,” Clint said dryly, coming up from behind them, bow resting easily in his hands. “I know, I just…,” Steve sighed, feeling very tired. These days it seemed like every move he did was the wrong one. Everything he said seemed to set Bucky off. And he wasn’t sure what to do.

“Hey, I get it,” Clint said with a shrug. “You don't wanna lose him. But you will if you keep smothering him. Believe me, the worst thing you can do is try and protect him from the world.”

Steve swallowed. The whole reason this was happening, happening to his best friend, was because Steve had failed to protect him in the first place. And now that Steve had him back, he couldn’t lose him again. “So what am I supposed to do?” he snapped, feeling at a loss.

“Watch his back,” Clint said simply, turning to face him. “That’s all you can do. He's gotta work this through on his own. You can't do it for him. And everything between him and Rumlow…,”

“We are not talking about that here,” Steve interrupted swiftly. Clint raised his hands in surrender. “I'm just saying, you can't protect him from that either.” He licked his lips before continuing, albeit a little hesitant. “I know for a fact that he's been sneaking behind your back to see the guy.”

Steve felt a cold flush stab into his chest. “He’s what?” he exclaimed, rounding on Clint. “Look,” Clint continued. “Even if Rumlow was a willing volunteer in the beginning, he certainly wasn't by the end. He's had it rough and I do believe he did his best to protect your boy.” Clint notched an arrow back to his bow as he headed down the hallway, giving Steve no other choice but to follow.

“All I'm saying,” Clint added as they began to catch up to the others. “Is to give the guy a sliver of a chance. Because if it's a true bonding, and i think it is, you make him choose and I guarantee you'll lose him.”

Steve didn’t have a chance to say anything else as they had caught up with the other two. Natasha was leaning against the doorframe, eyes calculating. “He’s inside,” Natasha murmured as Steve approached. “I swept the room. It’s clean.”

“Bucky,” he said softly, stepping inside the room. The dark haired man stood a few feet into the room, rifle hanging lax beside him. Steve swung wide, coming up on the side so Bucky could see him approaching. He faltered as he saw the large metal bolted in the middle of the room. Only now was Steve regretting not allowing Dr. Kenning to accompany them. He would know what to say, what to do.

“Bucky,” he tried again but the man didn't didn't react. He just kept staring at the chair. Nothing Steve could say made him move, or made him tear his eyes from the chair.

"Bucky."

 

 

  
Brock rolled his eyes, seeing Bruce eyeing him through his lashes for the eleventh time in the last half hour alone. “Okay, just tell me,’ Brock sighed. Bruce looked up, startled. “You’ve been eyeing me all morning. What’s going on?”

Bruce sighed, taking his glasses off. “I don’t really know where to start,” Bruce said, not really looking Brock in the eye. “Just say it doc,” Brock said, crossing his arms to hide the worry fluttered in his chest. It wasn’t like Bruce to dance around a subject like this.

“It’s just—.” The rest of Bruce’s words drowned out in the roaring rush that filled his ears and his vision darkened before blacking out completely. “I can’t see,” he gasped, hands scrabbling at the edge of the table before he fell off the stool as vertigo hit like a ton of bricks. “I can’t see.”

He heard a voice but it wasn't Bruce's. It was a voice he recognized but it made no sense because the man was millions of miles away in Siberia. He wasn’t even saying Brock's name.

 

_“Bucky?”_

_His vision swam as Rogers’ face came into focus, eyes worried and cautious. His vision swivelled around without Brock turning his head. A large room, a metal chair bolted to the floor._

_Anxiety and paralyzing fear gripped his chest, squeezing. He couldn't breath. The iron bands around his ribs wouldn't let him._

 

  
There was a thumping crash and his vision cleared instantly. Brock found himself staring at the table legs. He’d fallen from the stool and was sprawled out on the floor. Bruce was crouching over him, a worried look in his eyes.

Scrambling to his feet, Brock took off from the lab without a glance back. He ignored Bruce’s calls as he beelined it to the elevators. He couldn't even get a word out as he stumbled inside. His back hit the back wall and he braced his hands on his knees so he wouldn't fall over.

The elevator opened up onto his floor and he stumbled inside. His knees gave out and he braced himself on the kitchen counter, knocking over a couple mugs in the process. They smashed on the floor but Brock didn’t even notice. He slide to the floor, unable to breath.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there before footsteps padded through the kitchen and he felt a gentle touch at his wrist as searching fingers took his pulse. Gentle words were murmured as Brock slowly got his breathing under control. He shut his eyes with a groan, levering himself up into a sitting position.

He opened his eyes and wished he hadn’t. “The fuck are you doing here?” he muttered, pinching his fingers across his eyes. “Bruce said you might need some help,” Matt said calmly, sitting across from him, a parody of position to how Brock had sat across from James just a few days ago.

“I’m fine,” Brock bite out. “Bullshit,” Matt jumped in, tone calm and even like always. Brock stared at the man, taking in his calm demeanour. “Never heard a therapist talk like that before,” he tried deflecting but Matt wasn’t having any of it. “I’m not speaking as a therapist,” he said. “I’m speaking as someone who cared about you. Who still does.”

“Why?” Brock bite out, not believing a word.

“Sometimes people just care without anything to gain, Brock,” came the calm reply. Brock huffed a bitter laugh. “Not in my experience,” he muttered. “Why are you here?” he said, jumping in before Matt could analyze that little comment any further. “Bruce figured I’d might be able to help. First projections can be disorientating. Sometimes they cause panic attacks because the rush of emotions that aren’t yours is so strong.”

“Projections? What the fuck you talking about, projections?” Brock exclaimed. The look Matt levered at him was gentle, if mildly reproachful. “Bruce asked me because I’m one of the leading experts in early stage Bondings.”

“What?” Brock said quietly, feeling a cold rush flow through his veins. His chest felt tight and that same itching headache was creeping up his spine. “Soul Bondings,” Matt clarified, even though he really didn't have to.

He kept talking but Brock wasn’t paying attention anymore. The itching pain in his head flared hot and white light laced across his eyes as the memories flooded into his minds eye. They weren’t memories in the sense of places or people or even visuals.

They were feelings. One after the other, crashing down on him as Brock clenched his eyes against the waves of emotion.

  
_Anxiety. Panic. Fear._

_No, scratch that. Terror. Deep rooted, bald faced terror._

_And yet….a sense of belonging. Wholeness. Calm. Protected. Protective._

  
“Not possible,” Brock whispered.

“And why not?” Matt asked gently. “Do you feel like you don’t deserve it?” Brock shook his head, even though Matt had hit the nail on the head with the first swing. “Bondings are one in a million,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “The odds are….astronomical. It’s ridiculous to even suggest.”

He trailed off, getting lost in his own head. It wasn’t that he was thinking about anything in particular, it was more like he couldn't think about anything. He felt numb, inside and out. Fight or flight was warring within his head and flight was winning by a vast majority.

He couldn’t stay. Whether or not he believed it, and he was forcing himself not to believe regardless of the nagging feeling deep in his chest, he couldn’t stay. It wasn’t fair. The kid deserved better.

“You need to leave,” he said softly, interrupting whatever psychological bullshit the man was spouting. Matt sighed, leaning forward to say something else. His eyes were too damn gentle, too damn understanding, too fucking caring.

“Now,” he growled, putting a hard edge to his voice. Matt sighed and lingered another moment. “When you’re ready to talk, my door will be open.” And then he was gone.

Brock took a deep shaky breath. He had to leave and he had to leave now.

 

 

 

 

  
“Bucky,” Steve called after him as James stormed through the tower into the elevators. The trip to Siberia had been long and hard and painful, dredging up memories that he had forgotten and wished he hadn’t remembered. Tigger words rattled around in his head, twisting his stomach into knots and making his head ache something fierce.

There was only one person he wanted to see right now. Only one that could help him make sense of the mess in his head. And that person wasn’t Steve.

“Steve, we have a major situation,” Tony said as he strode in through the front doors behind them. Steve tossed a look back and that was all James needed to gain distance between them. “Bucky,” Steve tried again, turning back as James stepped into the elevators.

“Don’t call me that,” he spat as the doors shut in Steve’s very surprised face.

“Brock’s floor,” he said, pacing the elevator because he couldn’t stay still. “If I may—,” Jarvis tried but James wasn’t in the mood. “Just do it!” he snapped, running a shaky hand through his hair. The elevator shook a little and finally opened onto the floor.

James was mid way into the suite when he realized that no one was there. The lower level was empty. “Brock?” he called as he skipped up the stairs two at a time, only to find the bedroom loft as empty.

“Where is he?” he asked, heading back down to the elevator, thinking maybe the man would be down at the gym. “That was what I was trying to tell you sir,” Jarvis said calmly. “Agent Rumlow is gone.”

“Gone? Wha—what do you mean, gone?” James asked, pulling up short in front of the elevator doors. “Just that, sir,” Jarvis said as James felt a bubble of panic fizz in his chest.

“He’s gone.”

 

 


	9. Beautiful, Broken Things

“What did you do?”

Clint grimaced as he watched Barnes square off against Steve, feeling sorry for both men. There was no doubt in his mind that what Barnes and Rumlow had was a true _Bonding_. To have your partner just take off like this in the early stages of bonding has got to be overwhelming, especially when Barnes had been through the wringer over the last couple days. Doubly so since the man wasn’t consciously aware of the _Bond_.

And of course Clint felt sorry for Steve, however much he wished the man would just pull his head out of his ass. He understood where Steve was coming from. It was probably easy to forget that Steve was also a little messed up. Hell, he had been through a world war and then thrown into the future without legs to stand on. He seemed to had adjusted fine but Clint wondered how much of that was just good acting skills.

So he definitely understood the man’s compulsion to keep Barnes safe, to wrap him up in cotton wool and never let anything bad happen to him ever again. Steve blamed himself for what happened to Barnes, it was plain as day to the archer, and to help with that blame, he directed a lot of it at Rumlow. He was after all Barnes' handler for years when he was The Winter Solider.

What a fucked up situation.

“The hell did you do?” Barnes spat through clenched teeth. “I didn’t do anything, I swear!” Steve pleaded, hands raised in surrender. “I was with you in Siberia the whole time, remember?”

“You must have said something,” Barnes pressed before added softly. “He wouldn’t just leave.” Steve sighed, shoulder slumping a little. “I haven’t spoken to the man since he first arrived.” Barnes was pacing now. That wasn't good. “You don’t understand,” the dark haired man mumbled. “Just take a breath,” Steve tried but Barnes wasn’t hearing him.

“You don’t understand,” he snapped again, scraping a hand through his hair as he continued to pace. “He’s the only one who understands.” Clint couldn’t help but see the flash of hurt that flickered through Steve’s eyes. “He’s the only one who can help me make sense of this fucking mess,” Barnes continued, smacking his hand against the side of his skull.

“Bucky, just take a—,” was all Steve got out before Barnes whirled on him, eyes blazing. “I said don’t fucking call me that!” he roared. Steve actually rocked a half step back.

“What happened?” a gentle voice murmured in Clint’s ear and the archer turned, impressed that the man had been able to get so close without him noticing. Clint shrugged. “All I know is that Rumlow took off,” he murmured quietly.

Matt groaned quietly, pinching a hand across his eyes. “Dammit,” he said quietly. “I shouldn't have left him alone. I should have known he would do something like this.”

“What actually happened while we were away?” Clint asked, still feeling out of the loop as to the why. “Brock had a _projection_ while James was in Siberia,” Matt said with a sigh. “Cause an anxiety attack and when he realized what had happened, he panicked and did what he does when things get rough. He ran.”

Clint sighed. “What a lovely mess,” he muttered. “Do we tell him?” he asked. “About why Rumlow ran?” He figured the kid deserved to know the truth but Matt shook his head.

“The best way to strengthen a new _Bond_ is to discover it naturally,” Matt replied quietly. “Regardless of the fact that their _bond_ has probably had years to develop, the memory loss will make it feel like discovering it all over again and that’s assuming they even knew about it before. It’s actually quite fascinating conundrum. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

Clint nodded, understanding completely. Having worked closely together for most likely a number of years, Barnes and Rumlow’s _Bond_ would have had time to mature and strengthen but without the knowledge of what was happening, who knows how they were to react. Well, they already knew how Rumlow would react and that didn’t turn out well at all.

“Geez, everyone calm down,” Stark drawled, pushing off from where he had been lounging against the wall. “I can just pull up the GPS coordinates from his tracker and we’ll have our pet HYDRA agent back in the nest in no time.”

Clint’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. _Tracker?_ Barnes too had gone still and turned those pale ghost eyes of his towards the billionaire. Stark just rolled his eyes. “Oh don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I was taking precautions and it turns out I was right to do so. And I was completely kidding about the explosive charge," he threw over his shoulder as he pulled up a screen from thin air. 

“The what?” Clint winced at the calm, yet icy tone Barnes used. If Stark was phased he didn’t show it. Then again, Stark was a good actor. “I just said I was kidding! You really think I would throw the entire Geneva Conventions completely out the window? Really! Okay, here we go,” he said, rapidly changing subject as he pulled up the tracker's information.

“I still don’t even understand how he got out of the tower in the first place,” Natasha said, finally putting in her two cents from her perch behind Clint. Tony threw up his hands in exasperation and muttered something unintelligible as he pulled up a large map. “Aha!” he said triumphantly, pointing to the map. They all crowded closer to see the small blue dot blinking on the screen.

“He hasn’t even gone that far,” Steve said, trying to put Barnes at ease. “See? He’s on Staten Island.” Barnes didn’t say anything, just turned on heel and stalked towards the elevators without a backwards glance.

 

 

Clint slipped out of the elevator onto Barnes’ floor, making enough noise so the other man would know he was coming. Steve had unequivocally benched the former assassin, saying in no uncertain terms that they would bring Rumlow back but that it was too risky to have Barnes out an about in New York City in a military capacity.

Clint wasn’t sure if the reason was Steve didn’t fully trust the man to stay in control, if he still wanted to keep James from his former handler, or if he was worried about any public backlash. While Stark and his team had done an amazing job of painting Barnes as the victim, which was completely the truth, there were still many people who couldn't separate Barnes from the Winter Solider and blamed him directly.

While Clint actually agreed with Steve in this regard, he knew Barnes wouldn't feel the same. He figured the least he could do was give the guy some company. As it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who had thought that. Barnes was sitting at the kitchen table, field stripping the rifle he had used in Siberia while Matt sat across from him, murmuring quietly.

“Hey Doc,” Clint said as he approached. “Didn’t mean to intrude.” Matt glanced up with a smile. “Not at all,” he said pleasantly. “As long as James if alright with a bit more company.” He left the end of the sentence open, waiting for the younger man to voice his preference. James just grunted, fingers flying dextrously as he disassembled the last few pieces and got to cleaning.

“Want a hand?” Clint offered, pulling out a chair between the two men. Barnes didn’t say anything, but he did toss over another polishing cloth. Clint took it with a grin, getting to work. They sat quietly for a long while, Matt producing a book from somewhere as the archer and the sniper meticulously went over every inch of gun steel.

It was another hour before Steve strode through the elevator doors, shoulders weary as he leaned his shield against the wall and approached. Clint could feel Barnes’ muscles tense as he carefully set down the now reassembled rifle. He said nothing, just staring intensely up at the tall blonde man.

Steve sighed, meeting Clint’s questioning eyes with a small shake of his head. He dug into his pocket and placed a small item on the table. Barnes snatched it up immediately, turning it over in his fingers. The chair scraped harshly across the wood floor as Barnes pushed back from the table and stalked away from the group.

Now it was Clint’s turn to sigh. He had had just enough time to identify the object before Barnes had grabbed it. It was a dermal tracker, flecks of dried blood still visible in the metal grooves.

Rumlow was in the wind, with no way to track him.

 

 

It was late in the night as Clint made his way down to the garage. He had a feeling Barnes would try something and so asked Jarvis to keep an eye out but not to try and stop him. Low and behold, as the clock struck 2AM, the AI had informed him that Barnes had indeed snuck out of his floor and down to the garage level.

He found the man loaded a couple bags into the back of a black Land Rover. “Going for a trip?” Clint said mildly as he stepped around the back of the vehicle and found himself face to face the with barrel of a Glock 37.

“Easy,” Clint said, rising his hands to the sides. “Don’t think you can try and stop me,” Barnes said stiffly, eyes hard as they stared the archer down. Clint smirked. “Why do you think Jarvis didn't try to stop you when you accessed the weapons stash and the garage in the first place?”

The former assassin paused, looking him over calculatingly before lowering the weapon. “Thought it was a bit easy,” he remarked mildly. “So what? You wanna come with me, is that it?” Clint’s smirk turned into a grin as he reached over into a storage locker and grabbed the duffle he had stashed there earlier.

“Sniper bros road trip!” Barnes just rolled his eyes. “I’m driving,” he said shortly as he walked around to the drivers side and hopped in.

It took Steve thirty-six more minutes to call than the archer had anticipated. “Hey Steve,” he said mildly, noticing Barnes eyes flick over to him briefly before focusing back on the road. “Is he with you?” Steve asked shortly. “Yep,” he replied, popping the P with a sharp snap.

There was a pause. “Is he okay?” Steve asked quietly. “We’re fine, Cap,” Clint insisted. “Just taking a little road trip so don’t expect us to be home in time for dinner. Will update along the way.” He ended the call before Steve could get another word in. To put the man at ease he sent a quick text before putting his phone away.

_He needs this. Don’t worry. I’ve got his back._

“So,” Clint said, lounging back in his seat as the car sped down the highway. “Know where we’re going?”

“Yes,” Barnes said shortly, the added. “No. Not really. Soft of.”

“Well, that’s not at all confusing,” Clint drawled. He watched Barnes grip the steering wheel so tight that the leather creaked and the knuckles on his right hand turned white. “I can’t explain it,” Barnes said softly. “I just know.”

“Okay,” was all Clint said. He wasn’t about to push it, remembering what Matt had said about letting Barnes figure everything out on his own. He was also silently impressed. He had made a bit of a study of _Soul Bondings._ Sometimes if a couple had been together long enough, they could find each other by feeling the others emotions but it was never over more distance than a few dozen miles.

If Barnes could find Rumlow through _Transference_ alone without even knowing what he was doing….well, Clint had never heard of a _Bond_ that strong.

They drove until it got dark and then kept driving. Eventually Barnes pulled them into a dingy roadside motel. Clint checked them into the room while Barnes waited in the car. No need to be too careful, considering the long-haired man’s current reputation. Clint watched as Barnes did a sweep of the room. He then secured all the windows, closed the blinds, and threw the latch on the front door.

“I’ll take first watch,” Barnes said, seemingly satisfied with his inspection. “You’ve been driving all day,” Clint argued, absentmindedly examining the absolutely dizzying wallpaper pattern with a growing sense of nausea. “I got it. Go crash.”

Clint frowned, hearing no movement, and turned to find Barnes standing in the same place. His hand twisted in the duffel bag strap nervously. Clint raised an eyebrow. “I get nightmares,” Barnes muttered, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “They can be…unpleasant.”

“Me too, man,” Clint replied easily. “No shame or judgement here.”

Barnes hesitated only a moment longer before dropping his bad at the foot of one of the beds. He stripped of his boots, leather jacket, and jeans before climbing under the covers. He set his handgun on the side table within easy reach and tucked a massive hunting knife underneath his pillow. "Be warned. I will throw something at you if you snore," Clint snarked lightly. The only response he got was a very rude gesture.

Clint grinned, kicking off his boots and hopping up onto the second bed. He placed his own sidearm within easy reach. He grabbed a book he had brought with him and settled in for a long night.

 

 

A couple hours past. Clint was beginning to feel his eyes droop. He yawned, wincing as his jaw cracked. Glancing over at the sleeping man to his right, he frowned as Barnes’ muscles tense and twitch. The metal hand clenched with a tearing sound as the fingers ripped into the mattress.

Clint had actually started to look for something to throw at Barnes to wake him up, while weighing exactly how stupid that idea was, when the dark haired man sat up with a gasp, knife clenched threateningly in his right hand.

“Easy,” Clint said, raising his hands as Barnes’ eyes whipped onto him. “You’re safe. It's all good, man,” Clint promised as the younger man’s chest heaved. Barnes huffed a final breath, setting down the knife and scrubbing a hand over his face. He swung his legs out from under the covers and made his way to the bathroom. Clint could hear the sink running and splashing sounds.

He gave up on his book, reaching for the TV remote and began flicking through the channels. If they were awake they might as well have some entertainment. He eventually settled on a classic movie channel, which was currently playing _The Invisible Man_ from 1933.

Barnes didn’t say anything as he padded back into room, hair slightly damp and slicked back from his face. "Hey, you ever see this in the theatre back in the day?" he asked, pointing to the TV. "I don't remember," Barnes said shortly. He shrugged on his jeans before settling back down on the bed. “I’ll take watch,” he said stiffly, reaching down to pull a whetstone from his duffel bag. 

Clint thought he had put his foot in it for a minute there, but then Barnes was speaking again. "We didn't have much money growing up. And Steve hated horror movies." 

"Is that so?" Clint drawled, stashing that little tidbit of information away for later. "Seriously, I got watch. Get some sleep," Barnes said as he slide the knife along the stone with a sinister sounding _shnick_. "I'm fine," Clint protested but it was ruined by the yawn that punctuated the last word. Barnes snorted, rolling his eyes. "Get some sleep, Barton," he ordered.

"Fine, fine," Clint grumbled, wiggling out of his jeans. He slipped under the covers and then paused, having forgotten a small detail when dealing when it came to sleeping. He turned to the dark hair man, hesitating. Barnes raised an eyebrow, the knife scraping expertly against the sharpening stone. Clint sighed, figuring he might as well dive in the deep end. Reaching up, the archer slipped out one of the subtle hearing aids Stark had designed for him and held it up.

“I’m deaf,” he said simple. “Well, mostly deaf. Deaf enough to need these to be able to hear anything more than a dull buzzing.” Barnes' eyebrows rose an inch, his hands going still. “I didn’t know,” he said. “Yeah,” Clint shrugged. “I don’t really talk about it. These are the tactical aids Stark made for me, nearly invisible if you don't know to look for them. I just hate sleeping in them. Make my ear feel gross and I get headaches.”

“Fair enough,” Barnes said lightly, but his eyes spoke of how much Clint’s trust in him meant. Clint grinned. “Just throw something at me if you need to wake me up,” he said, snuggling down further into the bed. “I’ll take over again in three hours,” he added, setting an alarm on his watch which would vibrate to wake him up. “I mean it Barnes,” Clint snapped, seeing the dark-haired man opening his mouth to argue. “Three hours. I’m setting an alarm.”

A small smile tugged at Barnes’ lips. “Three hours,” he said. Satisfied, Clint slipped the second device out from his other ear. “Good. Night, Barnes.” Clint was still looking at the other man when he spoke so even if he couldn't hear him, Clint knew how to read lips.

_Call me James._

 

 

A quick stop at the nearby diner got them breakfast sandwiches for the road and then they were off, James once again behind the wheel. They drove until they were about to hit the highway for a couple hours of straight driving and Clint was able to convince James to give up the wheel for a while.

  
They drove in relative silence. Clint drummed his fingers on the wheel along to the country music he had insisted on. James was flicking through a magazine Clint had stolen from the motel, every once in a while asking questions about what he was reading.

“What’s this mean?” he asked, holding up the magazine. Clint glanced over to what he was pointing at; an ad for a company promising to find your _Soul Bond_. Clint rolled his eyes. “Scam,” he said shortly, merging over to pass a slow moving trailer.

“No, I mean what is it?” James continued. “What’s a _Soul Bond_?”

Clint took a breath, stalling for time. It had never occurred to him that James might not remember or even know what a _Soul Bond_ was in the first place. It had been a relatively new discovery in the late thirties and research into it came to a grinding halt when the War broke out.

“ _Bondings_  are like soul mates,” he said carefully, remembering what Matt had said about James finding out on his own. He sighed when James just shrugged, still looking confused. He figured that explaining what it was wouldn’t be the same as telling the man outright. And besides, if he didn’t find out now he would have to find out eventually.

“If you want to get romantic about it, the myth is that some ancient deity got angry at humans and used lightning to split them in half as punishment. I can’t remember what happened next but basically the idea is that each person in a _Bond_ is half of a once greater whole and that if they ever find each other they will feel unified again and have an unspoken understanding of one another.”

He chuckled, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it. “Scientists discovered it in the thirties, this _Bonding_. Some fancy poet or something called it _Soul Bondings_ and it stuck.”

“I remember now,” James said quietly, brow furrowed in thought. “There was a big research project about it a few years before I was shipped out. Something about people having a mental bond. Before that they just thought those people were crazy or possessed.” Clint hummed in agreement. There was many historical accounts of _Soul Bonds_ being mistaken for witches or demons. There were still some fanatical sects even today that still believed that.

“And what do these words mean? _Dream Sharing? Transference?_ Uhh… _Projections?_ I don’t understand.” Clint sighed. It wasn’t like he could avoid the conversation now. What was he going to do, refuse to talk about it? The guy would just google it. Unlike Steve, he had no qualms when it came to using the internet.

“It refers to the symptoms of a _Bonding_ ,” Clint explained. “ _Transference_ is the sharing of feelings between a bonded pair. Intense emotions belonging to one, but also experienced by the other. As a _Bond_ strengthens, pairs can learn how to send…I don’t know, _pulses_ I guess, of emotion to one another.” Clint paused as he got out of the way of some sports car riding his bumper.

“ _Projections_ is about projecting what you see to the other,” he continued. “Literally seeing through each other’s eyes. From what I understand that is less easy to control and usually happens at times of intense emotion, like fear or excitement.”

“What about _Dream Sharing_?” James asked after a brief pause. “Just that. Sharing dreams. It’s similar to  _Transference_ , but with dreams,” Clint explained shortly.

James didn’t say anything for for a long time. The SUV ate up the miles as they sped along their way to who knows where. The silence eventually stretched over such a long time that Clint was about to interrupt it and ask about directions when James suddenly pointed to a passing sign. “Take this exit,” he said shortly, tossing the magazine in the backseat.

A few more hours down the road and they were pulling into a motel parking lot in Brighton, Michigan. “Now what?” Clint asked, but was answered a few moments later as a truck pulled up a dozen spaces down and a very familiar looking man got out, sporting aviators and holding a small grocery bag.

The door clinked open as James hopped out the passenger seat. Clint did the same, standing up on the running board and leaning agains the open door. He watched as Rumlow pulled up short at the sight of them, more accurately the sight of James. His shoulders hiked as the man huffed a long sigh before turning and scanning the key card on one of the motel doors. It clicked open and he stepped in without a backwards glance, but Clint noticed that he only closed the door to. It didn’t latch.

An open invitation.

“I’ll wait,” Clint said at James brief questioning glance towards him. He watched the long-haired man stalk slowly towards the door, hesitating only for a moment before pushing his way inside.

 

 

 

 

"You dug out your tracker," James asked in leu of  _hello_ as he stepped inside the dingy motel room, letting the door swing shut behind him. Brock had his back to him and he sighed, setting the bag down and pulling the aviators from his face. "Yeah," the older man said shortly, not turning around. "You know there was no explosive or did you just take a gamble?" Brock's shoulders shook as he huffed a rough laugh. "Bruce let that one out of the bag a long time ago," he said mildly.

“Why did you run?” 

“Why did you come after me?” the man shot back.

“I asked you first,” James said stiffly, only feeling a little childish for saying so. Brock huffed a chuckle, still with his back to him. “It’s what I do,” he said “You would have done the same.”

“I don’t know, maybe,” James said, taking a step forward. “What do you want, kid?” Brock asked, still not turning around. James faltered. He had been so intent on finding the man he hadn’t really thought about what he would do when he had. When he said nothing, Brock sighed again. “Look kid,” he began but James finally found his voice as the memories of a dream that had been plagued him for months came to mind.

“They kept you in a cement room,” he interrupted quietly.

He watched Brock’s shoulders tense, his hands freezing midway into the bag. “They used rope instead of cuffs,” he continued. “Stop it,” Brock said softly. “There were four of them,” James said ruthlessly, taking a step closer. Brock braced his hands on the table, hanging his head. “Weren't there?”

“I’m not talking about this,” he said, white-knuckling the table. “Every few days the one with the scar would take you into another room.” James took another step as the details of the dream he had known wasn't his flooded back into his memory. He knew he had said the right thing when Brock froze, breath catching in his throat.

“He’d let you sleep on a real bed. Give you real food. Bandage your wounds. Ask you the same question.” Another step forward. “And each time you wouldn’t answer. So he’d throw you back into your cell and it’d start all over again.”

He was close enough to touch the man now. He could see the muscles in Brock’s jaw jumping as he ground his teeth together. “You can’t know that,” he said stiffly, staring down at the table with wild eyes. “But I do,” James said simply, taking a step to the side and into the man’s peripheral vision.

“I never told anyone that,” Brock whispered, breath hitching a little in his chest. “Not even Jack. How do you know that?” His dark eyes flicked up to James, wide and a little scared as they stared intently at him.

“I think you know,” James said softly.

Brock tensed, swallowing thickly. All his energy was leaning away, James could literally feel it. But he didn't move to leave. “It’s not possible,” he muttered. “And yet here we are,” James said with a shrug, not breaking eye contact for a second.

“You deserve better,” the man said, so quietly that even James’ enhanced hearing barely heard it. “Someone or something obviously disagrees,” he argued, taking a half step closer. There were scarcely a foot between them now.

The man didn’t say the words, but James could see the words echoing in his dark eyes.

  
_I’m not worth it._

The guilt and endless self hatred doubled back across the space, making James’ chest hurt. It matched the same feeling he had buried deep inside. He caught the shorter man’s gaze again and held it, trying to make the former HYDRA agent see without using words that he felt the same.

_Neither am I._

Brock inhaled sharply and James was wondering if the man was experiencing the same echo of feelings that he was when a soft knock at the door distracted them. “Sorry to interrupt,” Clint’s voice called through the door. “But we are about to have company and it’ll be six-foot-two with blonde hair and puppy dog eyes.”

“Damnit,” James muttered as Brock broke eye contact and stepped away, crossing his arms around himself. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight nervously. “You should go,” he said, refusing to look at James again.

With a sigh James crossed the room, pulling open the door to find Clint lounging against the side of the building. “Matt tipped me off,” he said quietly, peeking over dark purple-rimmed shades. Where he got them in the last few minutes, James had no idea.

“I have a safe house,” he offered. “If you’re not ready to face tall, blonde and righteous.”

“How far?” he asked. Clint shrugged. “Half a day’s drive.” James mulled it over, throwing a glance over his shoulder to Brock who was leaning against the table with his eyes trained on his boots. “Okay,” James said. “Five minutes.”

He closed the door again, leaning against his for support. Only then did Brock glance back up to him. “Well?” he asked, mirroring James’ posture. “Barton has a safe house,” James explained. “We can lay low and figure out whatever…this is,” he finished, gesturing between the two of them.

“Do I have a choice?” Brock bit out a little bitterly. James frowned. As much as he was tempted to just put the man in a choke hold and drag him into the SUV, he wasn’t about to force anyone into anything.

“Of course,” he said, not bothering to hide the surprise in his voice. Brock’s eyebrows twitched up an inch and he didn’t say anything else. They stared at each other for a long moment before Brock grabbed the duffle bag resting by the end of the bed. "Better than this shit heap," he snarked as he shoved the aviators back on his face. 

 

  
  
The drive was quiet and only a little awkward. Clint chattered and fiddled with the radio. Brock looked for all intents and purposes to be asleep but James wasn’t fooled. About an hour into the journey, Clint’s phone rang. James just shook his head in response to the questioning look the archer shot him. He really didn’t want to talk to Steve right now. He didn’t pay attention to Clint’s murmured conversation as he watched the trees whiz by the window.

Eventually Clint turned the car off the lonely road and down an even lonelier dirt road. They spent another good hour driving past nothing but fields and forests, following the river that wound along their right side.

The sun was starting to dip low in the sky as they finally approached a large green-roofed farm house. A dusty old barn sat just beyond it, with fences criss-crossing the fields and groupings of trees scattered about. They parked behind a blue and white pickup truck and Clint turned the engine off.

“Where are we?” Brock grumbled, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. Clint twisted in his seat with a grin. “Remember when I said I was married?” He hopped out of the car without another word, leaving the two men to follow.

The inside of the farmhouse was just as warm and inviting as the outside. A dark wood staircase lay right in front of the door. To the left behind white french doors sat what looked to be an office of sorts.

“Honey, I’m home,” Clint called as he stepped through into the living room to the right. "I bring company."

The open concept living room and kitchen boasted plush furniture, large windows, and a spacious dining table. Books and stuffed animals and other toys adorning most surfaces. Photos hung on the walls and framed ones sat above the fireplace and atop the piano that sat to one corner.

Colourful magnets and children artwork decorated the front of the fridge, as brightly coloured dishes sat drying beside the sink. A beaded curtain separated the kitchen from the cozy solarium-like sitting room out the back of the house.

A scratching of nails on hardwood announced the presence of a four legged furry whirlwind. “Hey Lucky,” Clint said, bending down to scratch the grey, brown, and tan brindled dog. Lucky woofed softly before turning brown eyes to James.

“He’s very friendly,” Clint said before disappearing further into the house. “Hey buddy,” James murmured, bending a knee to get closer to the dog. Lucky’s tail thumped on the ground as he sniffed his face. James scratched him behind the ear, a small smile tugging at his lips. He’d always been fond of dogs. Never could have one growing up, but he remembered he and Steve would feed the stray that lived out behind the pharmacy sometimes.

Lucky continued his inspection of James, sneezing when he got to the metal arm. Satisfied with whatever he found, he trotted up to Brock who hadn’t moved from the doorway. Brock just eyed the dog as Lucky sniffed at his jeans.

“Laura and the kids are out,” Clint said as he came back through the kitchen. “Should be back tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, I’ll give you the tour.” He flourished his arms out, gesturing to the space.

“Living room, kitchen, duh,” he said as he passed them, heading back the way they came. “Office,” he added, waving to the french doors. “Down there is the bathroom and laundry.” He skipped up the stairs, Lucky weaving himself out around his legs.

“Master bedroom, the kid's rooms, second bathroom,” the archer explained, pointing at random doors as he led them through the upstairs of the house. “And finally, the guest room.” The archer pushed the door open, revealing a spacious room with a queen sized bed, large throw rug, and a desk set. A large oak wardrobe sat in one corner and a dozen pillows cushioned the window seat that looked out over the backyard.

“The kids can double up if sharing for you two is going to be an issue,” Clint said hesitantly. “Or we got a blow-up mattress somewhere in storage. You guys hungry? I’m gonna go check the fridge.” And in a blink he was gone, Lucky trotting happily along at his heels.

And then it was just the two of them.

“So what now?” Brock asked, dumping his duffle bag and lounging against the door frame. “I don’t know,” James said quietly, tossing his bag into the room as he walked over to the window seat.

“This was your idea,” Brock accused. "You must have had a plan beyond dragging me into the middle of butt-fuck nowhere to play house." James sighed. Brock was on the defence. He was angry and spoiling for a fight and all James felt was tired and overwhelmed. He knew that this was just the man's defence mechanism. That Brock was scared and hurting and lashing out to hide it. James just really didn’t want to fight right now. All he wanted to do was sleep; sleep without nightmares, maybe wake up not feeling like someone had climbed inside his head and trashed everything.

"You didn't have to come," he said softly. "Not like you left me much of a choice,"  the other man grumbled. "There's always a choice," James snapped harshly, blame and resentment bubbling up and spitting like venom. If they had worked together for HYDRA for so long, how could Brock have not seen it? Was he completely oblivious? Or had he just not cared? From what he had seen and felt from the man, he was pretty sure neither was true  but it didn't stop him from thinking it.

“Fuck this,” he heard Brock mutter. Footsteps echoed down the hall as Brock turned and left. James pressed the heel of his palms against his eyes, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth as he tried to steady himself.

"Fuck you," James whispered, not really meaning it. Besides, the man didn't owe him anything.

Screw that, the man owed him everything.

James wasn't sure which it was and was too overwhelmed to try and figure it out. 

 

 

 

  
Brock found Clint downstairs in the kitchen, puttering away with various ingredients. A pot of water steamed on the stove, pasta sitting nearby. “Where’s James?” the archer asked as Brock slide into a chair at the table. “I don't know, sleeping maybe,” he said gruffly, resting his elbows on the table.

A touch on his leg made him jump, glancing down as Lucky shoved his head into his lap. “He’s a mooch for attention,” Clint said with a chuckle as the dog whined until Brock gave in and scratched him behind the ear.

“I take it this was your idea,” he said stiffly. “Maybe,” the bastard said cryptically. "In all honesty, I just suggested the farmhouse. It was James who came after you."

“I left for a reason,” he bit out, trying to control his temper. He felt backed into a corner and just like an animal, he was very close to lashing out. “Yeah, and what was that?” Clint asked, pouring pasta into the boiling water. Brock clenched his teeth and didn’t answer. He didn’t because he couldn’t. Lucky whined when Brock stopped petting him and nosed up against his hand.

“Could it be because of what happened while we were in Siberia?” the archer said mildly, chopping up garlic and tossing into into the pot of tomato sauce. Brock huffed a humourless chuckle, leaning back in the chair. Of course the man knew about that. “Fuck you.” Clint just shrugged. “I’m flattered but not really into dudes. Plus I’m married,” he said glibly, tasting the sauce before adding a pinch of sugar.

“Is everything a joke to you?” he growled. Clint sighed, turning to face him for the first time. “Only about eighty percent of the time,” he said mildly. “But seriously,” he said before Brock could blow up at him. “First _projections_ can be disorientating. Terrifying even. I remember my first one. Ended up in a pile on the floor.”

“What?" Brock said, startled. Then it all clicked into place. “You and your wife,” he stated, not even bothering to phrase it like a question. “Yeah,” Clint nodded. “And that doesn’t go anywhere,” he said sternly, eyes hard as he stared intently across the kitchen. “I can count the number of people who know that with half a hand and I’d like it to stay that way.” Brock nodded. “Of course,” he said quietly.

Then his mood darkened. “How long did you have suspicions?” he asked, swallowing thickly. “How long?” he snapped when Clint didn’t answer right away. “That night on the roof when we ran into James,” Clint said slowly. “Bruce figured it out before that though.” Brock grunted but wasn’t all that surprised. He may be quiet but the Doc was observant, seeing little details in people that most others would miss or dismiss. “But we knew for sure after movie night.”

“And you didn’t think I deserved to know?” Brock said very carefully. His temper was walking a very thin line. He was tired and frustrated and confused and didn’t know what to think. “It’s better to realize the bond on your own, without any outside interference. Or so I’m told. Who knows when you realized the bond, given all the memory wipes.”

“You tell anyone else?” Brock felt his stomach drop as Clint hesitated.

“We told Steve,” he said quietly.

Brock wasn’t quite sure how to process that. He was still in denial over the would Bonding thing in general. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, taking a deep breath.”This isn’t happening,” he muttered. “Fuck, this isn’t happening.”

Whatever Clint said next was drown out in a wash of panic that crashed over Brock like a wave. He struggled for breath, grabbing the edge of the table. “What…,” he gasped. “Easy,” Clint said, crouching down next to him. “You just gotta breath through it.”

_Panic. Fear. Pain._

Swirling emotions hit one after the other, tangling around each other into a jumble that lodge in Brock’s throat.

_Panicanxietypainfeardoubtpanicpainruncantrundontpainpanicfearpainpainpainpain—_

Just when Brock thought he was going to spiral into an abyss and never climb out, it was over. His head cleared and he got his breathing back under control. He looked up at Clint in shock. The archer looked at him, eyes filled with calm understanding. “It gets easier to control as the _Bond_ strengthens,” the man promised. “Less overwhelming.”

“What the fuck was that?” Brock gasped, clenching his hands to stop them from trembling. “You do know what _Transference_ is, right?” Clint asked, somehow finding a way to say the words in a way that didn’t come across condescending. “Yeah,” Brock replied, scrambling through his brain for that term of Biology when he was in High School. “It’s the transfer of one persons emotions to the other…,” he trailed off, realizing what he just said.

“What you felt? That’s James,” Clint said gently.

“Not possible,” Brock whispered, still refusing to really believe it. Clint gave him a look. “After everything that’s happened, after what _just_ happened, you really gonna keep denying it?”

“Maybe,” he muttered, mirroring Clint’s earlier snark. “He needs you,” Clint said simply, heading back to the stove. Brock swallowed, stalling. His eyes itched and he wiped a hand over them.

  
_“You’re not like the others.”_

  
He took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes against the memory that hit with the force of a truck.

 

_“What’re you talking about, kid?”_

_“The others. You’re not like them. You’re different.”_

_“Different how?”_

_“Just different.”_

_“Okay. You always this talkative?”_

_“No.”_

_“So what, I’m just special or something?”_

_“Or something.”_

  
Brock was on his feet before those last words had finished echoing in his head. He was up the stairs so fast that he didn't see the small smile that tugged at Clint’s lips. He didn’t hear the quiet words spoken to the now empty kitchen.

“You need each other.”

 

 

Brock was up the stairs two at a time. He paused at the door to the spare room to collect himself, calming his frantic heartbeat that seemed intent on hammering its way out from behind his ribs. A big part of his still didn’t believe any of this was real but there was a little, nagging doubt now in the back of his head.

Because _what if_?

“James?” he called quietly as he stepped inside the room. The man was lying on the bed, back to the door. He made no indication that he heard Brock. Not even a twitch. “James?” he said again as he slowly rounded the bed.

He crouched down in front of the younger man, seeing his eyes were wide open and glassy. “Hey,” he said softly. James blinked slowly, turning his ghost like eyes to meet Brock’s. He could see James’ throat bob as he swallowed.

“They broke me,” he whispered and Brock broke for him.

“They took me apart and put me back together twisted and broken,” he continued softly, as his over-bright eyes finally overflowed down his cheek. “You’re not broken,” Brock said softly, cupping the side of James’ face and gently wiping away the tears with his thumb.

"You're beautiful," he whispered before he could stop himself. 

James' eyebrows shot up and Brock felt his face flush hot. He cleared his throat nervously, looking away in embarrassment. He was about to pull away when a light touch on his cheek stopped him. He glanced up at James, startled. Pale blue met flint brown and held. James brushed the back of his fingers across Brock's cheekbone with a featherlight touch. Brock's breath hitched in his chest and he had to remind himself to breathe, to not drown in those endless blue eyes. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Brock promised, tangling his fingers in James' long hair.

"I promise."

 

 

When Clint came upstairs to tell them dinner was ready, he found both men fast asleep in each other’s arms. James had his head pillowed on Brock’s chest, Brock with an arm wrapped protectively around the younger man’s broad shoulders, their legs tangled together as they slept.

Clint felt a smile tug at his lips as he closed the door quietly, unwilling to disturb them.

Let them sleep while they had the chance.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know Soul Mate stories usually have to do with a tattoo of the first words you'll say to each other, or a mark that matches/finishes. I wanted to do something different, something more subtle. More internal and scary and overwhelming. Hopefully you all like my twist on it!


	10. Lessons From The Rain

 James woke to an empty bed and a headache that stabbed at his temples like a knife. He got to his feet, barely stifling the groan that threatened to slip past his teeth. His left shoulder ached fiercely.

He could already tell it wasn’t going to be a good day.

It took a moment to orientate himself. Slowly the events of the previous day trickled back to him. He glanced to the other side of the bed, where the covers lay bunched, the pillow still slightly indented. So Brock had slept here. James didn't just imagined it. Two duffels sat in the corner of the room, which mean Brock hadn’t made a run for it again.

James pulled on jeans and a hoody before shuffling downstairs. He followed the tantalizing smell of frying bacon, hesitating in the archway that separated living room from the kitchen. Clint stood at the stove, whistling as he masterfully flipped french toast and turned strips of bacon. All the while a little girl sat with her arms and legs wrapped firmly around his right leg, giggling uncontrollably.

“Morning sleepyhead,” Clint said with a smirk, glancing over his shoulder. “About time you woke up.”

“What time is it?” James asked, stifling a yawn. “After ten,” Clint said, flipping the last piece of toast up onto the large stack beside him. “Brock said to just let you sleep. Oh yeah, meet the family! This is my wife, Laura.”

James managed not to flinch as a dark haired woman brushed past him with a pleasant smile. “It’s lovely to meet you, James.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, ma’am,” he said politely. “Handsome and polite,” Laura commented, arching her brow at Clint’s back. “She’s raising her eyebrow, isn’t she?” Clint commented dryly, scooping the last pieces of bacon from the pan. “This little monkey is Lila,” he said, lifting his leg and with it the child, who giggled and waved.

“Hey monkey,” the archer said, bending down to gently extract himself from Lila’s grip. “Can you go tell your brother and Brock that breakfasts ready?” The little girl nodded and scampered out into the solarium off the back of the kitchen. James winced at the shrill shout that echoed through the house. “Breakfast’s ready!!”

“I could have done that!” Clint called out, placing the bacon and french toast on the table which was already ladened with plates, juice, coffee, and a bowl of scrambled eggs. “Help yourself,” Laura said with a smile as she slide onto a chair. “You’ve got to be starving.”

James slipped into a chair to her left. “Coffee?” she said with that same easy smile, like she wasn’t sitting next to the most feared assassin in modern history. “Please,” he said, hesitantly returning the smile as he filled his mug. “Room for milk?”

“Just sugar,” he said, eyes snapping up as Lila returned with a young boy in tow, chattering excitedly. “Dad! I finally got the spin right. See, watch!” He turned on a dime, arm winding up to throw just as the dark haired man came through the solarium behind them. “Think fast!” he said, the football flying through the air.

“Whoah!” Brock exclaimed, arm snapping out and plucking the ball from the air before it could smash into the bookshelf or through the window. “Cooper, what have we talked about a thousand times?” Laura scolded gently. “Not to throw in the house,” the boy said, rolling his eyes.

“This is Cooper,” Clint said as he helped the little girl up into a chair. “And Lila. Kids, this is James. He and Brock are going to be staying with us for a little while.” The kids murmured hellos as Clint took the chair at the end of the table.

That left only one chair for Brock and it was probably just a coincidence that it was the one to James’ immediate left.

Brock slide gracefully into the chair as Clint passed around the eggs. Brock didn’t spare even a glance at him, which had James wondering if the night before had just been a fluke. A moment of weakness on the part of the former HYDRA agent. “Thank you,” James said softly as Laura handed him the toast. Food was distributed and breakfast commenced without any incident.

After three-quarters of the way through the meal, James got the feeling of eyes watching him. He glanced up, catching Lila’s eye. “It’s rude to stare,” he said mildly, mouth curling into a small smirk and he winked to soften the words. The little girl giggled, munching on a piece of bacon.

“Why’s your hand silver?” she asked, in a brutally innocent way that only children can. “Lila, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Laura scolded warningly. James flexed his hand, more out of reflex than anything else. “It’s made of metal,” he said simply. He could feel Clint and Laura’s eyes on him.

“That is so cool,” Cooper exclaimed excitedly, eyes roving over the appendage. “Can I see?”

“Coop, finish your breakfast,” Clint said sharply as James fidgeted uncomfortably. “But—,” Cooper began but Clint cut him off swiftly. “Enough,” he said sternly. James' left hand flinched, catching the corner of Brock’s coffee mug and tipping it off the table.

“Shit,” Brock spat, jumping to his feet as hot coffee spilled down his jeans. The mug smashed on the floor, porcelain shards shattering in all directions. In all the commotion, James pushed back from his chair and was able to slip out the door without anyone noticing.

 

 

 

He just walked. He didn’t have a destination in mind, he just needed air. A quiet woof announced the presence of Lucky. The fluffy mutt trotted up on his heels and refused to leave, even when James tried to send him back to the house. He finally gave up and let the dog tags along. He crossed the field and headed down to the river, taking in a breath of the crisp cool air.

He didn’t belong here.

James knew he had no place among this family. He couldn't believe Clint would even allow him near his kids, let alone sleep under the same roof. Not with all the blood he had on his hands. Sometimes it was like he could still see it, dripping through his fingers, caked between the plates of metal.....

“Figured I’d find you out here,” a gruff voice startled him. He flinched, reaching for the weapon he didn’t have, to find Brock lighting up a cigarette. He blinked, realizing that the sky had grown dark with heavy rainclouds, now completely blotting out the sun. He had done it again; zoned out without realizing it.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” he said roughly. Brock shrugged, smoke pouring from his nostrils in two thin streams. “I don’t,” he said. James raised an eyebrow but didn’t bother to comment further. He just held out his hand, fingers beckoning.

Brock raised an eyebrow of his own but didn’t comment as he handed the cigarette over. James closed his eyes, relishing in the warm burn as the smoke filled his lungs. He exhaled slowly, watching as the cloud slowly dissipated above their heads. “Looks like you’ve done this before,” Brock commended with a chuckle.

“They taste different,” James said in reply. He took another puff before passing it back to the other man, only to find that Brock had already lite another.

“Keep it,” Brock said around the cigarette in his teeth. They stood quietly, watching Lucky try and hunt the squirrels. The squirrels seemed not to worry, chittering mockingly from their perches high up in the trees.

“I was serious last night,” the older man finally commented. “About what your plan was here.”

“So was I, about not knowing,” James said, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. “I’m just…I don’t know,” he sighed. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” Brock hummed, whether in agreement or just general acknowledgement James wasn’t sure. “I can’t be who Steve wants me to be,” James said quietly.

“I don’t remember how.”

He heard Brock sigh as the clouds above rumbled ominously and James felt the first few raindrops splatter on his shoulders and sneak under the collar on his jacket. “Sorry about your jeans,” he mumbled, scuffing his boot against the wet grass.

“Come on kid,” a gentle chuckle of a voice murmured by his ear as James felt a hand grip the back of his neck in a comforting, grounding touch. He let Brock lead him back up through the field towards the house, the dog bounding happily along side them.

   
James hesitated in the door, considering his hasty departure, but if the Barton family had taken offence, they didn’t show it. Laura was finishing the dishes while Lila played with a building set in the living room. Clint and Cooper had since disappeared.

Brock pushed James in the direction of one of the comfy-looking armchair as he made his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on. James watched the window as the rain started coming down harder, splattering against the window as the wind whipped it sideways.

A bright flash illuminated the room a moment before a thunderous boom cracked overhead. A sharp shriek stabbed at James’ ears and a second later he had a lapful of small child.

James didn’t even think, he just reacted. He cradled her close, tucking her head into his neck to block out the smell of the storm just like he had done with his baby sister whenever she got scared by a storm. Another thunderclap crashed over their heads and the little girl trembled in his arm.

He was so preoccupied, he didn’t notice the flash of alarm that flickered through Laura’s eyes as she saw that metal arm wrap around her little girl. She even took a half step forward before Brock placed a hand on her arm. “He’s fine,” he murmured quietly, too quietly to reach even James’ enhanced ears.

It was true. James would no more hurt that little girl than he would hurt his own baby sister. It was as if it was the 1920s again and James was cradling Rebecca in his arms. And just like with his little sister, he knew what to do to distract her.

“Do you know how to count with the storm?” he murmured in Lila’s ear as she flinched at another thunderclap. “No,” a tiny voice whispered in his ear. “Okay, you have to wait for the flash. You’ll have to open your eyes,” he said with a smile.

Reluctantly, the little girl sat up with a sniffle. James spun her around in his lap so they could look out the window. A moment later and a white flash cracked across the sky. “Count with me,” James said. “One Mississippi, two Mississippi.”

“Three Mississ—eep!” Lila squeaked, clapping her hands over her ears as thunder cracked overhead. The room went dark as all the lights snapped off. “Oh shoot,” he heard Laura mutter behind them. There was a rummaging sound but James just focused on Lila and the storm.

Another flash. “Okay, here we go. One Mississippi, two Mississippi.”

They counted to five and a half together. This time Lila barely flinched as the thunder rolled through the clouds. “You see?” James said encouragingly. “The storm is moving away. And now whenever you get scared, you just count between the lighting and the thunder. Let's try again.”

They got through three more thunderclaps, each count the storm moving further and further away, before back door slammed shut. Lila hopped off James’ lap and ran over to where a drenched Clint and Cooper came trudging through the kitchen, arms ladened with firewood.

“Daddy, daddy,” Lila cried, tugging on the corner of Clint’s soggy jacket. “James taught me how to count with the storm!”

“Did he now?” Clint murmured as he stacked the wood into the box beside the fireplace. “Yeah, so I’m not scared of them anymore!” she crowed, although the next thunderclap had her practically crawling up into Clint’s arms.

“Well, it’s not the breaker,” Brock said with a sigh as he and Laura came back into the kitchen, flashlights raised. “Tree brought down a line,” Clint said adjusting Lila in his arms. “It’ll be a while before we can get someone up to repair it. I’ll go start up the backup generator.” He gave Lila a kiss on the head before setting her down and heading back out into the rain.

“Lila, come help,” Laura said, beginning to build up the kindling in the fireplace. She shot a grateful look James way before turning to the task, accepting the newspaper Lila passed her. James turned back to the window, watching the rain.

“Counting with the storm, huh,” Brock murmured as he stepped up beside James. “Told that to my younger brothers and sister when they got scared,” he said quietly. “Figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“You were really good with her.” James huffed a laugh. “Yeah, Stevie always said that I was a natural with dames, dogs, and kids.” His smile had a bitter edge to it. All the memories he had of before the Winter Soldier were tinged bitter sweet.

“And I didn’t know you had siblings.”

“Yeah,” James said softly, chuckling at the memory. “Oldest of four. Drove our mum mad.” Brock chuckled along with him. “I bet you did.”

 

 

The rest of the day was spent in idle relaxation, the fire blazing cheerfully in the grate. They played cards and monopoly, although Brock refused to play the latter. After sufficient bullying from Clint and pleading from the kids, he finally relented into being the banker.

He was terrible, purposefully not keeping track of anything.

He’d spontaneously have players win the lottery which would entail Brock throwing a handful of random bills in their general direction, much to the children’s delight. Brock would also spontaneously tax players, and by players it was always Clint. The game fell apart when Clint landed on Park Place and Brock was so fed up with the archer throwing popcorn at him that he claimed there had been a bank robbery and gave all the money to Lila.

After dinner, Clint made everyone hot chocolate and curled up in the living room with Laura and the kids and read a chapter from the book they were currently reading. James slipped out quietly, not wanting to intrude.

Neither it seemed did Brock, who had slipped out after dinner. James found him curled up on the bed, snoring softly. Not wanting to disturb the man just yet, James headed down the hallway and slipped into the bathroom. He showered quickly, letting the hot water sooth the tension from his muscles as he dragged his fingers through his hair to get rid of the worst of the tangles. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he headed back to the room.

Jams froze as he stepped into the room, finding Brock rigid and trembling, eyes clenched closed as his nostrils flared with panting breaths. “Brock,” he called softly. “Brock,” he said a little louder when the man didn’t react.

Nothing happened. Brock grimaced and whimpered, hand clenching in the bedding. “Hey, it’s just a dream,” James began, reaching a hand to shake Brock awake. No sooner had his fingers brushed the man’s sweater, Brock’s eyes snapped open and James found himself thrown into the wall, a knife at his throat.

One look at Brock’s glazed wild eyes and James knew he wasn’t fully awake yet. No sooner had his back hit the wall, a rattling thud echoing through the room, he had disarmed the shorter man. Spinning him around, James easily pinned the sleep-sluggish man against his chest.

“You gotta wake up. Brock, you're dreaming,” he said soothingly as the man thrashed against his arms, breath coming out in harsh panicked pants. “Come on Brock, wake up!” he roared in the shorter man's ear.

Brock gasped and went stiff. After a beat, he relaxed into James’ arms. “You awake?” James murmured. 

“Yeah,” Brock gasped with a shudder. He was trembling. James could feel the tremors rippling through the man’s muscles as Brock got his feet underneath himself again. "You good?" he asked. “I’m fine,” Brock snapped, pushing his way out of James’ embrace. He turned to James and immediately turned away, a hot flush creeping up his neck. “Why are you naked?” he asked in a slightly hoarse voice. James glanced down at himself.

He was indeed very naked.

“Well, you threw me into a wall,” he said mildly, grabbing a pair of sweatpants off the end of the bed and yanking them up over his hips. Only then did Brock turn around and James didn’t miss the way the man’s eyes roamed from the waistband of said sweatpants before trailing up his abs and bare chest.

“See something you like,” James said slyly, lips twisted into a lopsided smirk. His smile widened as the flush crept high up Brock’s neck to his ears and he glanced away. James chuckled, bending down to retrieve the knife he had disarmed from Brock before handing it back hilt first.

Brock snatched it back so swiftly, it sliced across James’ palm. He hissed as blood dripped onto the carpet. “Shit,” Brock snapped, setting the knife down in exchange for grabbing a nearby shirt. “Fuck,” he bit out as he pressed the fabric against James’ hand.

“It’s fine,” James said but Brock just shook his head. “It’s not,” the shorter man snapped. “Fuck!”

“Hey. See, look,” James insisted, raising his hand for Brock to see. “It’s just a scratch. Already clotting. It’ll be gone by morning. I’m fine,” he said sternly, seeing Brock open his mouth to argue. “I’m okay,” he added softly.

“Sorry,” Brock whispered, busying his hands by wiping the blood from James’ hand. “Nightmares?” James asked quietly, wincing as Brock’s hands went very still. “Yeah,” Brock said, clearing his throat and turning away. He spun sharply and hurled the shirt into the corner of the room. “Fuck!” he snapped, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes with a shaky breath.

James swallowed, unsure what to do. He wasn’t used to being on this side of a freak out.

He acted on impulse and instinct. He took two steps forward and pulled the trembling man into his arms. Brock stiffened immediately, a hand slipping between them to push away, but James didn’t let go. It only made him hold on tighter.

He slide one hand up into Brock’s dark hair, cupping the back of the man’s head. It was a struggle but eventually Brock stopped trying to push him away. James felt the hand planted on his chest curl into a fist, another sliding around to latch onto his back.

His chest clenched as he heard Brock’s shaky breath hitch, painful emotions reverberating through the air around him.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there, wrapped around each other. Slowly Brock’s breathing evened and he stopped shaking. This time when he pulled away, James let him. Brock sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve and blushed again, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

“You ah…,” Brock mumbled, clearing his throat. “You should put a shirt on.” James smirked. He wouldn’t have taken Brock to be so shy. “Didn’t hear you complain any,” he said, chuckling as Brock’s blush deepen. None the less he snatched up the hoody that had been tossed on the end of the bed and yanked it over his head.

“That’s my hoody,” Brock accused, the flush slowly subsiding from his cheeks. “And that was my shirt,” James said pointedly, nodding to the bloody fabric bunched in the corner of the room. “We’ll call it even.”

Brock huffed a chuckle but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You wanna talk about it?” James offered, already knowing the answer. “Nope,” the other man said shortly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

“Yeah,” James said, hesitating. He listened to the footsteps skipping up the stairs, the quiet voices as Clint and Laura tucked the kids into bed. “I can…crash on the couch, if you’d prefer,” James offered. Brock still hadn’t made any effort to discuss what had happened the night before and James hadn’t wanted to push things. Just in case. In case of what, he wasn’t really sure.

“It’s fine,” Brock said wearily, yanking back the covers. “Bed’s big enough.” Brock promptly curled up on the edge of the bed, his back to James. James hesitated again before climbing into the other side of the bed. He spared one last glance at the older man’s back before turning off the lighting.

 

He woke in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, blinking away the clinging memories of alleyways and a skinny blonde punk who couldn't stay out of trouble. He wiped watering eyes and rolled over, coming nose to nose with Brock. The man must have rolled over some time in the night. He was curled in on himself, fully relaxed in sleep as he never was when awake.

He looked so much younger. The lines etched from age and stress and squinting through rifle scopes had softened. James couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. He reached out, gently brushing back the few strands of dark hair that had fallen out of place and across the man’s forehead.

Brock twitched, shifting in his sleep. James froze but Brock relaxed again. James felt something calm and comforting settle over him. A feeling of safety he hadn’t felt in a long time, if ever. It filled every part of him, accompanied by a fierce protectiveness for the man sleeping beside him.

The strength of the emotions scared the shit out of him.

He shifted as close as he dared, not wanting to wake the man up. He closed his eyes and fell instantly into a dreamless sleep.

 

 

James woke to the rain lashing the windows and a warm body pressed up against his. A strong arm was wrapped around his waist and he could feel a warm breath tickling the back of his neck. He closed his eyes again, reluctant for the moment to end. It was nice.

Before long the man behind him stirred. There was a pause as James felt the man stiffen. The arm disappeared, as did the warm body pressed up against his. He sighed.

Moment over.

He cracked his eyes open a sliver and was greeted with the sight of Brock pulling his jeans up over his lean, toned hips. James watched as the dark haired man stripped off his shirt, muscles rippling. His eyes flicked over the collection of scars that scattered over the man’s back and shoulders. Burn marks, thin lines that could have been from a knife or a whip, a few round pockmarks that could only have been made by bullets.

Each mark told James that the man in front of him was a soldier, a fighter, a surviver.

He gave up the pretence of sleep and slipped out from under the covers with a yawn. Brock started, turning and allowing James a good view of a defined chest, narrow hips, and a thin line of dark hair that trailed from his navel and disappeared past the waistband of his jeans.

“Sorry I woke you,” Brock muttered, shrugging into a sweater. “You didn’t,” James said, slipping out of the sweatpants and into his own jeans. "How's the hand?" the man asked stiffly. "It's fine," James said, glancing at the thin red line of new skin that stretched across his palm.

“Are we ever gonna talk about this?” he asked quietly as he watched Brock pull on the hoody he himself had just discarded. “Talk about what?” Brock said with a sniff, pulling on socks. “Don’t bullshit me like that,” James snapped, anger bubbling in his chest. He hated himself for being so short fused like that but he hated Brock even more for avoiding the conversation they desperately needed to have.

Brock turned, startled. “You know exactly what the fuck is going on and you're too chicken shit to deal with it,” James snarled. Brock’s mouth, which had been hanging open in surprise, snapped shut with a click, eyes growing hard.

“You can’t pretend like you don’t feel it too,” James continued, voice softening. “I don’t know what I feel,” Brock muttered, moving towards the door. James wasn’t having it, not this time. He sidestepped in front of the shorter man, putting himself between Brock and the door.

“You’re not running away, not this time,” he snapped. Brock just glared, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. “What do you want from me?” he huffed, for all intents and purpose looking very much annoyed. James wasn’t fooled. He could see the man’s muscles cording with tension, the way his jaw twitched, the intense emotions reverberating over the _bond_. Not for the first time he wondered if the shorter man felt them too. Or maybe he had just blocked them out through sheer, infuriating stubbornness. 

“I don’t know,” James whispered honestly. “You keep asking and it’s gonna be the same answer because I don’t fucking know. All I do know…,” he swallowed thickly before forcing himself to continue. “All I know is that I sleep better when you’re there.”

James watched as the man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. His weight shifted and his eyes darted nervously to the side. James waited but the man said nothing. He sighed and moved to leave.

A sharp tug at his sleeve made him stop.

“I’m not….I don’t…,” the shorter man stumbled as James turned back in surprise. Brock huffed. He still was holding onto James’ wrist, like he was worried James would leave if he let go. “I’m not good at this....emotional shit. I don’t know. Just…I meant what I said earlier.”

His dark eyes flicked up to James’ for the first time. They were swimming with emotion, over-bright and vulnerable.

“We’ll figure it out.”

James turned his hand over to clasp Brock’s wrist in return, thumb running gently over Brock’s inner wrist. He could feel the man’s pulse hammering under his fingers, or maybe it was just his own heartbeat hammering in his chest.

“Yeah?” he said as he stepped closer, coming almost nose to nose with his former handler. He reached up with his other hand, brushing that same stubborn curl back from Brock’s face. “Yeah,” Brock said, licking his lips, eyes settling on something just past James’ shoulder.

James cupped the side of the man’s face, feeling the rough rasp of stubble against his palm. Dark eyes flicked up to meet his and he leaned in closer, nose brushing against Brock’s. The shorter man inhaled sharply and then James was pressing his lips gently against Brock’s.

Brock stood stiff under his hands and James felt a twinge of something deep in his chest. He had just fucked everything up. James pulled away, apologies on the tip of his tongue but Brock beat him to it.

A hand fisted in his shirt and pulled him back into a searing kiss. Heat sparked deep within his chest as he let Brock deepen the kiss. He slide a hand up to cup the back of Brock's head just as a hand buried itself in his long hair, blunt nails scratching against his scalp. Teeth scraped along his bottom lip and he moaned, low and deep in his chest.

Brock was the first to break the kiss. They pulled apart, more than a little breathless. James chuckled and after a moments hesitation Brock joined in. “Jesus kid,” he breathed.

“You know I’m half a century older than you,” James said with a smirk. Brock barked a surprised laugh. “That’s fucked up,” he chuckled. “Tell me about it,” James smiled, lips pulling into that trademark smirk that the Commandoes used to tease him about.

Maybe they would figure it all out.

 

 

 

  
The storm didn’t let up all morning and continued into the afternoon. Brock and James were playing cards with the kids while Clint made lunch and Laura was doing work in the office. Everyone bristled as the front door clicked open. Lucky woofed once from his spot by the fire before returning his head lazily to its perch on his paws. A beat later, a sopping wet red-head stepped into the front foyer.

“Aunty Nat! Aunty Nat!” Lila shrieked as she flung herself into the woman’s arms. Natasha laughed as she swung the little girl up and into her arms. “What are you doing here?” Clint asked with a smile as he stepped out from the kitchen.

“I was just missing my favourite girl,” Nat said, giving Lila a tickling squeeze. “And you think I’m not checking in on you after you just ghost me like that?” She glared at the archer, who rubbed his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“I thought I heard a familiar voice,” Laura said, coming up from behind and giving Natasha a hug from the side not holding Lila. “It's so good to see you. How long can you stay?”

“At least a week” Natasha said, turning her eyes towards James. “Barnes,” she said, throwing a quick smile across the room. “Romanoff,” he said pleasantly. “Did you bring us any presents, Aunty Nat?” Lila said, fiddling with the necklace around her neck. “Cheeky,” Nat said with a smile, putting the girl down to give Cooper a hug.

It was only then that James realized that Brock wasn’t sitting beside him anymore. James glanced around, not seeing the man anywhere. James excused himself quietly, slipping upstairs. He found Brock in the bedroom, stuffing his clothes into his pack. “What are you doing?” James asked, forcing down that familiar bubble of panic in his chest.

“Leaving,” came the short reply.

“What, why?” James said stiffly. The tension radiating from the man’s shoulders was practically suffocating as he harshly zipped the bag closed. “What did I do?” he asked quietly, expecting the worse. “Nothing,” Brock said sharply, glancing over his shoulder with a pained look that he quickly masked. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

“Then what?” James pressed, standing his ground as Brock shrugged his jacket on. “I think it has something to do with me,” a dry voice came from behind him and James turned to find Natasha lounging in the doorway.

Brock said nothing as he brushed past James, pulling up short as Natasha stepped to block the door. “You’re leaving in the middle of a storm with no transport and no plan?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “I’ll be fine,” Brock bite out, eyes hard and filled with heat as he white-knuckled the straps of his bag. “I always am.”

“Don’t be an idiot and walk away from something good,” Natasha said calmly, eyes flicking briefly past to James, who shifted awkwardly. He hadn’t felt more like an intruder since he had been snubbed by Peggy Carter at that bar in Italy.

“Don’t,” Brock bristled, taking a menacing half step forward. Natasha was unperturbed as always, looking calmly at the fuming man before him. “Don’t do anything stupid, Rumlow,” she said softly. “Then don’t push me, Romanoff,” Brock growled. “Get out of my way.”

Natasha didn’t move, standing solidly between Brock and the door. He moved to push past her but she grabbed his bicep. In the span of a blink, Brock threw Natasha against the wall, pinning her with a vicious snarl.

James started forward on reflex. Not that Natasha would need help. The only way Brock had been able to pin her is because she must have let him. She twitched her fingers, motioning James to stand down. It would take more than an angry HYDRA Commander to rattle her calm.

“You need to calm down,” she said but Brock wasn’t having any of it. “Don’t placate me!” he snarled. James swallowed down the rush of emotion he felt echo back across the bond.

Anger yes, rage even. But hidden beneath all that was hot, searing agony. Pain and lose and guilt pushed the breath from James’ lungs and he braced himself against the end of the bed as a wave of dizziness washed over him. It was a tense moment. Brock’s breath came out harshly. Finally Natasha broke the silence.

“It was war,” she said quietly. “He didn’t leave me any choice.”

Brock’s fist tightened on the front of Natasha’s sweater and then he was gone. A beat later and they heard the front door slam. Natasha sighed, straightening her collar. “That went better than I expected,” she said mildly.

“Fuck,” James bite out.

It was like one step forward and two steps back. Constantly. Every time they made headway together and James thought things were getting better, something came along and threw a wrench in the works. Not that he blamed Natasha. He still wasn’t exactly sure what happened between the two of them, but he could guess.

It had been war. HYDRA against SHIELD. And while Steve and his friends had been able to stop HYDRA from launching the helicarriers in time, thus saving countless lives, there had still been heavy casualties on both sides. And James could think of at least one person whose death still haunted Brock.

It got dark and Brock still hadn’t come back. Clint made dinner and they all ate together in silence. The others had no doubt heard the commotion that had happened earlier but no one commented. Natasha was in the living room playing cards kids and James was helping Laura finish up the dishes when the door clicked softly open. Brock, absolutely drenched and dripping on the hallway carpet, paused only long enough to meet Natasha’s eyes. He nodded slightly, which Natasha returned, before disappearing up the stairs.

James stood frozen, dishtowel in hand, not sure what to do. Laura of all people solved his dilemma. She took the towel from his hands, exchanging it for a warm plate of leftovers. She gave him an encouraging smile and went back to the last of the dishes. He took a breath and headed upstairs.

 

 

 

 

Brock just walked. He didn’t think about a destination or even trying to stay dry. He just walked. He wasn't a complete idiot. He did keep the river on his right so he wouldn't get lost.

He walked and walked, completely numb to the world. He barely felt the cold rain as it easily seeped through his sweater and soaked his skin. He didn't notice as his hair slowly flattened, dripping around his face and plastering itself to his forehead.

Eventually the cold settled into his bones and he couldn't feel his fingers anymore. And he just kept walking. He didn’t want to feel. He relished in the numbing cold of the storm that made his jeans stick to his skin and filled his boots with muddy water.

To say that the last week had been overwhelming would be the understatement of the year. And then Romanoff had to show up and put the cherry on the fucking cake. He had managed to never run into her while at the Tower. Not that it had been difficult, but he had been glad of it.

Part of him wanted to put a bullet between her fucking eyes. The other part was just tired of being angry and hurt all the time.

It was starting to get dark and he cursed under his breath. He huffed a harsh sigh before forcing his feet to turn around as start the long walk back. Without gear he wasn't going to get far. Again, he wasn’t stupid. Or suicidal, however much Jack would have agued if he had been there. If he had been alive at all.

  
_“You ever think of retirement?”_

  
Brock fisted his hands against his eyes with a growl, trying to force the resurfaced memory away. He didn’t want to remember this, not now. Not him.

  
_“No. You really think we’ll live that long?”_

_Jack shrugged his broad shoulders, not looking away from the TV that was playing some stupid talent show. “I don’t know, maybe,” he said. “You might.”_

_Brock chuckled from his perch at the breakfast bar, his sidearm spread out in pieces for cleaning before him. “Considering we’ve only ever been separated for two missions in our entire fucking careers, when you die I’ll probably be dead right alongside you. What?" he exclaimed as Jack chuckled._

_“I always knew you were a romantic at heart,” Jack drawled. Brock didn’t even bother to dignify that with a response and settled for throwing a pen at the man’s head._

_“Wouldn’t be your fault,” Jack said cryptically after a long pause. “What wouldn't be?” Brock asked, finally scrubbing a stubborn piece of grit out from between the metal grooves on the barrel._

_“If I died before you. Wouldn’t be your fault.”_

_“Are you drunk?” Brock accused, spinning around fully in the stool he was perched on. “Not the point,” Jack said smoothly, taking a sip from his fifth beer of the evening. “You’re a sappy bastard and I don’t want you doing anything stupid like blaming yourself or feeling like you can't enjoy the rest of your life.”_

_“And I’m the sappy one,” Brock said, rolling his eyes. Every once in a while Jack would get in these weird, sentimental moods._

_“Hey look, a dancing dog,” Jack commented, taking another swig. Brock just chuckled, giving up on his chore for the moment and moving to join Jack on the couch. He snagged the beer just as Jack was moving to take a sip._

_“Greedy bastard,” Jack muttered as he got up to get himself another beer._

 

The rain whisked away the silent tears that spilled down his cheeks as the memory of the man he'd been through so much with slowly faded in intensity and the images behind his eyelids disappeared.

“Always had to be fucking right, didn’t you?!” Brock screamed at the cloud-covered sky.

“Fucker,” he muttered, shivering as the wind whipped at his dripping clothes. He scrubbed his nose harshly against his sleeve, truly noticing for the first time how absolutely soaked he was. The rain was beginning to slack off now, turning from a downpour to a thin drizzle. He sighed and began the long, cold walk back to the farmhouse.

He had hoped to slip in without being noticed, but that wasn’t going to happen. Everyone just had to be in the living room. He caught Romanoff’s eye and his breath stuttered. He froze, soaking wet and dripping on the hallway carpet.

He swallowed thickly, the resurface memory still rattling around in his head and Jack’s words echoing painfully. He supposed it only made sense that if he shouldn’t blame himself, he shouldn’t blame Romanoff either. After all, they had both just been doing their jobs. Trying to survive.

He might not be able to ever forgive her, but he could tolerate her at the least. He nodded, sharp and quick but she seemed to get the idea. She nodded back, a quiet understanding in her eyes. That was all Brock could take and skipped up the stairs two at a time. 

It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps behind him and the door to the bedroom creaked open before softly being shut. 

“You’re dripping on the cushions,” a soft voice drawled.

Brock huffed, turning from his perch by the window seat to find James standing with a large towel and a covered plate of what Brock assumed was leftovers from dinner. The latter he placed on the desk, the former he tossed at Brock’s face, who caught it with numb fingers.

“Dry off. You’ll catch your death,” he said with a smirk. Brock couldn't help the rough chuckle but it didn't reach anywhere beyond his lips. His eyes were hard and numb as they stared blankly ahead, not really seeing. “My grandma used to say that.”

“Smart lady,” James said. "You should have a shower.”

“I’m fine,” Brock argued but his teeth had started to chatter so his argument was a bit of a moot point. Also James wasn’t having any of it. That glare alone was enough. “Alright, alright,” Brock grumbled, stalking past the younger man and into the bathroom. He wouldn’t admit it, but the kid was right. Brock did feel refreshed after a hot shower. He dried off quickly, wrapping the towel around his waist before heading back to the room.

James was still there, lounging in the window seat.

Brock glanced around, spying his sweats tossed at the end of the bed. He was very conscious of the fact he was only in a towel. A full role reversal from the evening previous. He slipped into the sweat pants quickly, feeling James’ eyes following his movements.

He grabbed a nearby sweater, finding it sit a bit wide around the shoulders. “Yours?” he tossed at James, indicating the piece of clothing. “Yep,” was all the younger man said, watching the storm outside. "Anything you want to talk about?" the younger man asked quietly. Brock just shook his head, staring at his feet, not ready or willing to dredge up any more painful memories. 

“Laura saved you a plate,” James said, pointing in the general direction of the desk. “Not really hungry,” Brock said quietly. His stomach was in knots and the idea of eating turned his insides into butterflies. “Then get some sleep,” was the quiet answer and Brock glanced up to see James crossing the room. He traded jeans for sweatpants and crawling into the bed without another word.

Brock hesitated, just staring at the man curled up under the covers. His long dark hair contrasted sharply with the pale pillow. His long lashes brushed his cheeks as he blinked sleepily. He was nibbling at his lip unconsciously as he scrolled through something on his phone. God damn, was he beautiful.

The wall Brock had so painstakingly built up around himself so long ago finally crumbled and Brock felt himself surrender completely to the feelings he had been warring with for who knows how long. The rush of emotions that crashed over him now he wasn’t fighting to keep them out threatened to swamp him.

 _Belonging. Protectiveness. Acceptance. Understanding. Desire. Joy._ Other emotions so strong and overwhelming that Brock couldn't even begin to find the words for them. They settled in his chest, making it hard to breathe. They crept up into his throat so he had trouble swallowing around the lump that grew there. He felt them reverberate back, along the invisible string that tied him to the other man. A string that he had refused to admit to and now couldn't deny any longer.

Other feelings not his own joined in the mix, echoing similar ones that rested in his own heart. _Guilt. Shame. Pain. Lose. Rage. Fear. Panic._ They echoed out and redoubled back on themselves, a rolling tide of sensations and Brock was drowning in them.

A gentle touch on his hand made him jump. He looked up and got lost in pale blue.

Suddenly, all those feelings of panic and fear slowly melted away in the presence of a blazing warmth that rushed through Brock so utterly and completely that he felt like he had just found the thing he had been missing for so long. “Come on,” a quiet voice reached his ears and Brock allowed himself to be gently pulled forward. He let the taller man manipulate him into bed. Soft footsteps padded across the floor and then the room went dark.

The bed behind him dipped and he felt a warm weight settle against his back. An arm slipped around his waist, settling just over his heart as a leg slipped in between his. Another arm slipped under his neck, allowing his head to cushion against a well-defined bicep.

“Is this okay?” that same quiet voice breathed in his ear and Brock swallowed thickly, eyes prickling. “Yeah,” he said softly, reaching up to tangle his fingers through the hand resting on his chest. 

Lips brushed gently against the arch of his ear and Brock clenched his jaw, fighting to stay in some semblance of control over his turbulent emotions. He wanted this, so much that it scared the shit out of him. "It's okay," James murmured soothingly in his ear. "You're okay."

A single tear slipped past Brock's defence and slide down his cheek. The arms holding him tightened, pulling him back against James' chest. It was incredible how well he fit in that man's arms, like he had always belonged there. Brock huffed a quiet breathy laugh at the thought. Looks like Jack had been right after all. He was a sappy romantic bastard. 

"Yeah," he said softly. "We're okay."

 

 


	11. He Tasted Like Christmas Morning

James would never have guessed but Christmas was a serious affair in the Barton household. December 1st and the children were practically dragging Clint out the back door to go cut down a tree. “What can you do?” Clint said with a twinkle in his eye as he bundled up the two little ones and tramped out into the snow.

The home had always felt warm and inviting, but now it had been completely transformed. Colourful lights had been strung through every room. Paper snowflakes had been cut out and were stuck to every single window. The house smelled wonderful, with something delicious always baking in the oven or bubbling on the stovetop.

A fire was always crackling merrily behind the grate. The tree had been set up in one corner, decorated with popcorn and tinsel and twinkling lights and in the evenings Clint or Laura would entertain on the piano. James still hadn’t worked up the courage to play himself yet.

Laura had even produced two more stockings from who knows where to hang from the mantlepiece. “Didn’t know how long you’d both be staying so I planned ahead. Just in case,” she said with a wink. James wrestled down the butterfly-like feeling in his guts and forced a smile. 

He remembered very little, if anything, of Christmas when he had been a child. The only Christmas James could truly remember had been spent huddled in a foxhole with two other men in the middle of snow-covered Germany, quietly singing carols over the thundering sounds of mortar explosions, eating half-frozen rations. This was far superior in James' mind. At least at first. 

It was a few days before Christmas when Clint got a call.

“That was Steve,” he said, stepping into the kitchen. He only had eyes for Laura, whose hands had suddenly gone very still. “When do you leave?” she asked quietly, clearly used to the drill. “Tonight,” he said. The quinjet will pick me up. Hey.” He took the cookie cutter out of her hands, sliding his fingers through hers.

“I’ll be back for Christmas,” he said softly. “I promise.”

“You better,” Laura said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Or you’ll be in big trouble, Mister.” Clint smirked, leaning in to kiss his wife. Clint looked up, catching James’ eye and motioning to the back hallway. James followed, confused.

“If you’d prefer, I can meet the quintet on the other side of the river. But,” Clint hesitated before continuing. “Steve was hoping to see you.”

“It’s fine,” James said automatically, rolling his eyes when Clint gave him a look. “Really,” he said, meaning it. “I should talk to him. Kinda left things on a bad note.” Clint clapped a hand on his shoulder before taking himself back into the kitchen.

James sighed, planting his hands on his hips. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to face Steve or if Steve was ready to accept what was happening, but he had to try. He owed too much to that skinny punk from Brooklyn not to try.

 

  
They had just finished up an early dinner when the telltale roar of the quintet rattled the windows as Clint strode into the kitchen full gear. “I’m gonna take a walk,” Brock muttered, pushing away from the table and slipping out the back before James could stop him.

James took a steadying breath as he heard footsteps clomp up the front porch. A moment later and Clint strode back through, this time with company. James watched as Steve hesitated in the archway, dressed for combat in a darker, a more modern version of the suit he had worn in Germany so long ago. The man was practically wringing his hands, nervous energy rolling off him in waves.

James got to his feet with sigh, nodding to the back door. He shrugged on a coat before slipping out the door, not bothering to look back. Heavy combat boots treading lightly on hardwood told him Steve was following anyways.

He huffed, his breath coming out in small clouds as he shrugged the coat higher up on his neck. James brushed snow off the railing and leaned on his elbows, staring out over the white-washed yard. He felt Steve come up beside him and do the same.

“How are you?” Steve asked quietly after a long moment. “I don’t know,” James said truthfully. “But I’m figuring it out.”

“Good. That’s good,” Steve said, swallowing thickly. “Look, Bucky I…,” he trailed off, swallowing whatever he had to say next as James tensed involuntarily. “Sorry,” Steve said sheepishly, a slight flush creeping up his neck. “Habit.”

“Bucky Barnes is dead,” James said softly.

He felt far calmer than he had anticipated when he thought about having this conversation. He felt a little bad at the flinch that snapped over Steve’s face but he had to say it. It was beyond time.

“He died falling from a train,” he continued relentlessly. “Whoever HYDRA pulled off that mountain…it wasn’t him.”

“I don’t believe that,” Steve said fiercely as he stared intensely at him. “I can’t.”

James swallowed, his hands that clenched into fists the only betrayal of the growing anxiety crawling up his chest. “I can’t be him. Too much has…I just can’t.” It seemed like Steve wasn’t ready to take a hint yet. “You just need time," he pressed. "To heal, to remember, to—,”

“Stop. Just…stop, Steve.”

Steve’s jaw muscles jumped as he snapped his mouth shut. James sighed, picking at the railing’s peeling paint. “I remember when we first met, you know. You and your skinny ass getting beat up by some school bully out behind the garden shed.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Steve turn hopeful blue eyes to him. “I remember feeding that stray with you out behind the pharmacy. I remember breaking into that pharmacy when your ma got sick and you couldn't afford the meds.”

He took a breath, only now turning to meet Steve’s eyes, swallowing painfully at the hope and caring shining through because he knew he was about to shatter that look. “And I also remember slitting a man’s throat while his toddler watched from her playpen.” He swallowed stiffly, forcing himself to continue. “I remember shooting a man at dinner with his family from a mile and a half away. And I remember beating Howard Stark to death before moving on to dispatch his wife.” The lump in his throat got to big and the words got trapped. James snapped his jaw shut, staring down at his hands.

“None of that is your fault,” Steve whispered. “I know,” James said. He did know that, even if sometimes he couldn't make himself believe it. And that was okay too. He now had people in his life to remind him when he forgot, to believe for him when he couldn't quite manage to.

One person in particular.

“I’m sorry,” James started but now it was Steve’s turn to interrupt. “No, I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “God, you have nothing to be sorry for. I shouldn’t have put so much on you to just…pick up like nothing ever happened. Guess I failed you again.” Steve cleared his throat painfully.

“Jesus, just shut up already, will yah?” James drawled, surprising himself at the old Brooklyn twang that slipped out. Steve certainly was surprised, eyes widening as nostalgia and sorrow flashed across them. “It ain’t no one’s fault. It’s just a fucked up situation any way you look at it. I don’t blame you. For anything,” James continued, voice thick with emotions as so many feelings and memories hit him all at once.

“You’re my best friend, Stevie,” he said softly. “Ain’t nothing ever gonna change that.” Steve’s eyes were over-bright and swimming with emotion. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. James watched as the man swallowed painfully and clapped a comforting hand on James’ shoulder, squeezing gently.

Movement on the other side of the field caught James’ eye and he looked up to see a small dark figure making his way across the field, hands stuffed into pockets to ward off the cold. A fluffy black and white mass bounded through the snow beside him, dancing around the man and kicking up snow in every direction.

Even from this distance James could hear the soft barks Lucky made and the even softer chuckling from the dark haired man. He couldn't keep a soft smile from tugging at his lips.

“You love him, don’t you?” Steve asked quietly, seeing the trajectory of James’ gaze. “No,” James said, smile still pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Not really. Not yet, anyways.” He sighed, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.

“He’s just…,” James fumbled, trying to find the right words to make Steve see, to man him understand how important the former HYDRA Commander was in his life. “He’s the only thing that makes sense. He somehow helps me sort through this fucking mess in my head. He makes me feel grounded.”

“He’s done a lot of terrible things, Buck,” Steve said.

“So have I,” James said quietly.

Silence settled over the two men, the snow muffling any other noise. James sniffed, eyes subtly tracking Brock as he paused to bend and scratch Lucky behind the ears. Steve followed his gaze, a small frown on his face as he watched the man who had tried to kill him more than once toss snowballs for Lucky to snap out of the air.

Brock paused, turning towards the farmhouse and James felt Brock’s eyes feet him, even from this distance. A questioning sort of feeling thrummed in his chest, a feeling he knew wasn’t his. James smirked, sending back reassuring feelings to the other man. He turned to find Steve’s eyes sharp as they watched the invisible exchange. The blonde sighed, a tight lipped smile pulling at his lips.

“I don’t like him,” Steve said sharply, his eyes betraying his tone. “And I certainly don’t trust him. But I trust you.” James felt a warm feeling bloom in his chest and his throat tightened. Could this mean…?

“But If he hurts you,” Steve continued sternly. “I’ll kill him myself.”

“You’re not gonna give him the shovel talk now, are you?” James teased, a smirk tugging at his lips even as his chest constricted with painful emotions. He knew how difficult this was for Steve and he appreciated it more than he’d ever be able to say. “No, not unless I have to,” Steve replied, a small smile tugging at his face. “Calling you _James_ will take a bit of time to get used to. Makes me feel like your grandmother but…I promise I’ll try.”

A surprised laugh bubbled past James’ lips. “She was a crotchety old biddy, wasn’t she?” he chuckled. Steve’s small smile changed into a full blown grin. “Yeah, she certainly liked boxing _your_ ears.”

Steve’s chuckle turned choked and he swallowed it down, emotions bubbling too close to the surface as thoughts of the past resurfaced. Now it was James’ turn to clap a hand on the blonde’s shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. “Thanks Buck,” Steve whispered softly. He flushed, catching himself. “Sorry. _James_ ,” he corrected.

James swallowed. The name sounded wrong coming from Steve’s mouth. He was beginning to realize that maybe he had been a bit too harsh before, speaking out of anger and hurt rather than true feelings. “That sounds weird,” he said mildly. “Can’t even remember the last time you called me James.”

“I honestly can’t either,” Steve admitted, a spark of something akin to hope flickering in his eyes. “Maybe we should just stick with Bucky,” James said and really meant it. Steve’s smile was small but so genuine it made James’ chest hurt. Everything about Steve made him hurt, but it was a good kind of pain. The kind of pain that said you were still alive.

“Steve?” Natasha called softly from the doorway. “Right,” Steve said, straightening. “I gotta go,” he said, eyes regretful. James forced a smile, pushing down the worrying feeling that lodged itself in his chest. “Go kick some ass,” he said with a smirk. “And stay safe, punk.”

Steve snapped a crisp salute, only ruining it slightly by the smile he couldn't keep off his face. “Always do,” Steve said. “You too. Jerk.” And then he was gone.

James shivered, hiking his collar up higher as he trudged down the steps and out into the snow. He crossed the field, noticing the other man had since stopped walking, waiting for him to catch up. He fell into step beside the shorter man as their steps slowly looped them back towards the farmhouse, Lucky bounding around their ankles like a puppy.

 

 

  
Brock trailed aimlessly across the field, kicking up snow for Lucky to snap at, all the while keeping a subtle eye on the farmhouse and James. The conversation with Rogers seemed to be going fine. It was a conversation he knew the two men needed to have. For all he and Rogers didn't get along, James needed the blonde man. Brock wasn’t about to try and get between them.

He felt eyes on him and glanced up to see James watching him. A rush of reassurance hit him low in the chest and his breath hitched. That was something he still wasn’t used to; that alien feeling of someone else’s emotions. The conversation ended and James began to make his way through the snow towards him. Brock slowed, allowing the younger man to catch up with him. James said nothing and Brock didn’t ask. It wasn’t his place and if James wasn’t sharing, he wasn’t going to push it.

They walked in silence. Occasionally James would lean in just enough to brush his shoulder against Brock’s. They were almost at the farmhouse as the quinjet roared up into the sky and disappeared into the clouds.

They slipped back inside, tramping snow from their boots on the porch before stepping through into the kitchen. They found Laura sitting at the table, looking very tired as Cooper’s retreating back disappeared out of the room. Footsteps stamped up the stairs, followed by a door slamming sharply. Laura sighed, glancing up to the two of them, standing like idiots now knowing exactly what to do. “It never gets easier,” Laura said softly, bending to scoop Lila up into her lap. “But it’s harder this time, being so close to Christmas.”

“I got it,” James said softly, surprising both Laura and Brock alike as he slipped out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Laura turned to Brock, a question in her eyes, but Brock just shrugged. He wasn’t worried, more curious than anything.

He had time to make a pot of coffee, mixing it into a mocha for himself and Laura as well as making a hot chocolate for Lila before James returned, Cooper in tow. There was a mischievous glint in the man’s eye, mirrored ten-fold by Cooper who wasn’t anywhere as adept at hiding his feelings.

Laura saw it too. “What are you boys up to?” she asked suspiciously. “Nothing,” Cooper said with a smirk, bending to whisper something in Lila’s ear. The girl’s eyes lit up and she scrambled off her mothers lap and together they dashed out the back. “What’s got them all riled up?” Laura asked, arching an eyebrow in James’ direction.

James shrugged. “Just mentioned that it would be a shame to waste all this fresh snow,” he said mildly, snatching Brock’s mug from his hand and taking a sip. Brock raised his eyebrows, still seeing a mischievous spark in the man’s blue eyes but still not understanding what it meant.

He soon found out. Small footsteps and giggles alerted the children’s return, bundled up in jackets and scarves. James dodged past him as Cooper threw something round and white into the man’s waiting hands. Before Brock could react, the other man had grabbed him by the back of the collar, yanking him off balance.

Something wet and fiercely cold was shoved down his neck and Brock flailed, scrabbling at the snow that melted down his back. He whirled to find James beating a swift retreat. “Run, run, run!” he cried to Cooper and Lila, who fled with shrieks of delight.

“Oh dear,” Laura commented mildly as she took her coffee and disappeared into the office with a smirk. Brock huffed a laugh that was part growl and went to grab his coat and boots. The only thing on his mind now was revenge.

As he stepped out onto the back porch, only years of combat training saved him from being smacked full in the face by another snowball. He dodged it by mere inches, the slushy projectile hitting the side of the house with a solid thwack. His eyes scanned the yard, catching a flash of movement from behind the snow-covered lilac bush. He scooped up a handful of snow as he carefully crept down the porch steps.

 

 

The bright porch lights allowed the game to continue long into darkness. Eventually only Laura’s calling had the four of them stumbling soaking wet and breathless into the kitchen. Laura, already dressed for bed, bundled the children upstairs into bed, throwing grateful looks and goodnights to both of them.

James and Brock hung their coats at the back door, facing still flushed from the cold. “Jesus, do you never miss?” Brock muttered, shrugging off his wet hoody as they stumbled upstairs. James huffed a laugh as they slipped into the bedroom, numb fingers combing dripping and tangled locks of dark hair back from his face.

Brock found himself staring as James shrugged out of his damp sweater, revealing toned muscles and scarred skin. Hair wet and dripping, face still flushed from the cold, blue eyes sparkling like sun on ice….Brock blinked, snapping himself out of it. He tossed the hoody into the corner, realizing he was still holding it. He sprawling into the chair by the desk, looking up through his lashes at James as the man pealed off his soaked jeans. A rush of heat filled Brock’s chest and he forced himself to look away, bending to peel off his socks.

He barely had the second one off before there was a hand on his shoulder. He was pushed back into the chair and he suddenly had a lapful of super soldier.

“Wha—what are you doing?” Brock chuckled as James settled on top of him, arms resting lazily on the chair back behind him. “What does it look like?” the man above him said, that infuriating lop-sided smirk pulling at his mouth.

“Uhhh,” Brock stammered, trying to connect the words rattling around in his brain to his mouth. “Is that a trick question or—?” His words were cut off abruptly as James ducked his head and pressed his lips firmly against his.

“Wait,” Brock mumbled against James’ lips but the younger man ignored him. A hand slide into Brock’s hair, tugging wickedly, blunt nails scratching against his scalp.

Brock’s hands settled lightly on James’ bare thighs, feeling the muscles taunt and rigid. For all that James was being bold, his lips were soft and hesitant, his body radiating tension.“Stop,” Brock gasped, pulling away and looking up into pale eyes. The STRIKE team used to called them the eyes of a ghost, the pale blue colour unnerving many.

Brock couldn’t remember seeing anything more beautiful.

Those same eyes now flickered with doubt, darkening with embarrassment and something akin to panic. He felt the man begin to pull away and tightened his grip, reaching out a hand to fist in the front of James’ shirt. Puzzlement flickered across the younger man’s face at the grip.

“Stop,” Brock whispered again.

He reached up, cupping the side of James’ face with a gentle hand. He brushed his thumb across the corner of James’ mouth and felt more than heard the man’s sharp intake of breath.

“Are you sure?” Brock murmured. James began to nod and Brock slide his hand under to grip the other’s jaw firmly. “I need to hear you say it,” he said softly. After having the freedom of choice stollen from his for so long, Brock needed to hear James say it.

“Yes,” the younger man whispered in reply. Brock could feel him swallow, his throat rolling against his palm.

He tasted blood and smelled the acrid scent of gunpowder as visions of blue eyes and James’ hands gripping his wrists filled his vision. He blinked them away, focusing on the here and now.

The past could wait.

His fingers tightened around James’ jaw but his lips were soft as he pulled the younger man forward into a gentle kiss. A kiss which quickly turned bolder as he felt James relax under his hands.

He slide his hands up James’ thighs and then under. The muscles in his arms corded as he stood, hoisting the man into his arms, their lips never parting. James’ legs tightened around his hips as the former assassin’s teeth scraped along Brock’s bottom lip.

Brock growled, hands tightening around James’ thighs hard enough to bruise as he walked him over to the bed and tossed him down. Within the same breath he was on top of him, nestling in between his legs.

He hissed as cold hands slipped under his sweater and up his back even as teeth nipped at his jaw. Brock pulled away only long enough to pull the garment still damp with snow over his head and toss it aside.

As soon as the sweater fell from his hand, Brock was grabbed and in the blink of an eye found himself flipped onto his back, James straddling him with a smirk. “Cheeky,” Brock growled, tangling a hand in that long hair and pulling the man down against his chest. His other hand found its way back down to James’ thigh. James growled against his lips, rolling his hips and sending sparks through Brock’s very skin.

A quiet creak reached his ears and warning bells cracked through his head. He grabbed James by the back of the head, the other hand clamping across his mouth. “Quiet,” he hissed quietly, staring off past the man’s shoulder as he listened intently.

There it was again.

This time James heard it too, going still above him. His eyes snapped to Brock’s and even as he watched, they shifted into Soldier mode. Laura and the children had long been in bed. As soon as Brock’s hands left his face he was on his feet, eyes hard and alert.

Brock carefully pulled the bag from under the bed, removing one of the many handguns stored their. He passed it along with a clip without word to the other man before arming himself.

“Gently,” Brock whispered as they made their way towards the door, snapping the lights off before opening the door and peered out into the hallway. Empty save for long shadows slashed through with moonlight. They made their way softly down the stairs, peering into the corner.

Four small red lights danced along the walls as the black-clad assault team folded in from the kitchen.

“Shit,” Brock breathed, ducking back up the stairs. He could see James’ outline, silhouetted in cool moonlight as he watched and waited on Brock’s orders. Crisp hand signals outlaid the plan, one James agreed to with a curt nod.

Softly they crept down the stairs and around the other way, intent on coming up behind the assassins. Two more red dots on the wall were the only warnings they got before the rest of the team came through the other kitchen door.

Brock snatched the barrel of the assault rifle of the closest man, snapping the barrel back and into the man’s masked face. A swift yank pulled the man off balance and Brock slipped behind him, swiftly snapping his neck. He let the man down gently, even as James fell the other, blood pooling from the soldier’s slit throat. Brock hadn’t even seen James palm the knife.

Brock crept back the way they came, pausing as the other half of the team began to creep up the stairs, completely unaware of the fate of their companions. Brock waited until the right moment then reached up over the bannister and yanking the closest man over, ending his life swiftly. At the same time James leapt up onto the stairs and the remaining three men fell without ever getting off a shot.

They had just enough time to exchange a feral grin, blood hot from the fight when there was a tremendous shattering crash from upstairs. Brock’s blood ran cold at the high pitched shriek that stabbed at his ears. He rushed up the stairs, James hot on his heels, heading for the source of the screams.

The children doors were flung wide, showing empty beds with rumpled covers. There was no way this was happening. This couldn't happen.

_BANG! BANG!_

Brock’s heart stopped as gunshots rang out from within the master bedroom but his step didn’t falter. A quick glance behind him showed James still at his heels and without another hesitation, Brock kicked in the door.

They swept into the room, guns raised just to see Laura drop an enemy agent with a perfectly executed double tap with her Glock; one to the chest, one right between the assassin’s eyes.

The intricate french doors that had lead onto a small balcony were smashed, glass everywhere as the wind whipped the curtains. Another body lay sprawled on the balcony, scarlet blood contrasting starkly with the white snow.

“Whoah,” Brock breathed, lowering his gun, impressed. Laura said nothing, jaw set as she tucked the gun into the back of her sweat pants. “Help me,” she snapped as she wrestled the covers from the bed. With Brock and James’ help she spread it over the one body, using the sheet to cover the other.

Only then did she move to the closet, opening it to reveal Cooper’s wide eyes, his arms wrapped around his sister. “It’s alright. It’s safe now,” she said calmly, holding her arms out. Lila crawled into her arms, silent tears streaming down her little cheeks. Cooper was as quiet as he let his mother gather him to her.

“Don’t let them see downstairs,” Brock murmured quietly in her ear as she passed him. “Not until we clean up.”

She nodded, jaw tense. “There are tarps in the barn,” she said softly as she herded the children out. Brock and James trailed behind, sweeping downstairs and over the bodies to clear the rest of the house. James moved to clear the yard and gather the tarps as Brock rolled up the front carpet and began gathering the bodies in the front foyer. He pulled off their masks but recognized no one. Neither their gear nor uniforms held any insignia or telling marks.

Soft footsteps had him spinning on his heels, gun half raised before recognizing James returning with an armful of folded tarps. He dropped them in a heap in front of Brock, eyes downcast.

“You good?” Brock asked. James sniffed, scrubbing the back of his hand under his nose.

“I found the dog,” he said softly.

“Oh,” Brock breathed, tucking his gun into his jeans. “Shit.” That explains why the dog hadn’t barked. “Yeah,” James said. He cleared his throat roughly. “Let’s get this over with,” he said sternly before Brock could say anything else.

Soon, six neatly wrapped packages sat out on an additional tarp on the back porch. Next they wrapped Lucky in another tarp, laying him gently on the other side of the deck from the men. They’d have to wait till light for a proper burial. Brock only hoped there was machinery on the property that could be used to dig. The ground frozen as it was would be impossible to dig in.

Brock shivered, realizing only now that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. “You should probably put a shirt on,” James murmured in his ear as they stepped back into the warmth of the kitchen. “You should probably put on pants,” Brock retorted, glancing over James’ bare legs and tight black boxers but the man didn’t tease back. He was tense and slumped in on himself. He was taking this far harder than Brock.

Brock sighed, weary to the bone. They still had to clean up the mess. Helicopter blades roared overhead and all weariness was chased from his body immediately. “It’s okay,” Laura said softly, dodging the blood splatters as she made her way down the stairs. “I called in a cleanup crew. You both alright?”

Brock nodded for both of them. “They killed Lucky,” James said softly. Brock grimaced at the way James flinched as he said the words, eyes downcast as if he was waiting for Laura to blame him. Laura took a breath, swallowing thickly. “I thought as much,” she said quietly. “Thank you,” she said, meeting Brock's eye. “Both of you," she said firmly, turning to James. The younger man looked up, slightly startled. "Thank you for saving my children.”

“You seemed to have it well in hand,” Brock said with a reassuring smile. Laura’s replying smile was small but it was still there. “I still had a few tricks up my sleeves,” she said as she turned to meet the crew of agents coming in the back door.

James had beat a hasty retreat up the stairs, leaving Brock to trail behind. He found the man bent over the sink in the bathroom, shaking hands leaving bloodstains on the porcelain. “Easy,” Brock murmured, ignoring the churning of emotions he felt through the bond and grabbed a washcloth from the basket nearby.

He filled the sink with warm water, carefully washing all trace of blood from the man’s hands. He slipped gentle fingers under his chin, turning his head to wipe the specks of red adorning his face. James remained silent throughout, eyes downcast.

He brushed a tangled hair from the younger man’s face, grimacing at the knots. “Come on,” he said, snatching up a comb and gently leading James by the wrist. He quickly pealed himself out of his stained jeans, pulling on a shirt and sweatpants before passing James the same.

He gently pushed James down onto the bed, climbing around to sit behind him. He started slow, working out the worst of the knots as gently as he could. He knew James would talk when he was ready. Sure enough, he was almost finished, most of James’ hair laying silky as tangle-free, before the younger man spoke.

“This is all my fault.”

“Bullshit,” Brock responded immediately, working away at the last tangle. That broken glass tone of voice James was using stabbed home, reverberated painfully across the bond. “They were here for me,” James insisted quietly. “You can’t know that—,” Brock began, but James rode over him, throwing a half glance back over his shoulder.

“Why else would they be here?” he snapped. Brock sighed, finally freeing the last knot and tossing the comb blindly aside. “We’ve been here almost a month, so if they were after you why now? And it was only to squads. If they’d been coming for you, they’d have sent a fucking army.”

He shifted closer, kneeling so his thighs bracketed James on either side, pressing his chest up against the man’s back. “It wasn’t your fault,” Brock murmured in his ear. He wrapped his arms around the man’s broad shoulders and tugged him backwards and then sideways until they were lying on the bed proper. His arm cushioned James’ head, the other wrapping around his shoulders.

He could tell that James didn’t fully believe him but he seemed to be out of the will to argue it further. Brock stifled a sigh, knowing that this probably wasn’t the end of it but was too drained to try and push the man any further that night.

 

 

  
Clint returned the next day, eyes harried as he swept through the door, not even bothering to take off his snow-caked shoes. He wrapped his arms around Laura, burying his head in her neck and just holding her. Then he kissed her sweetly and bent to gather his children into his arms.

It didn’t escape Brock’s notice that James had snuck out the back door the second Clint had arrived. Brock got to his feet, intent on following, but Clint got to him first. A firm hand clapped on his shoulder made him turn and much to his surprise, he was enveloped in a tight embrace. “Thank you,” Clint said softly, pulling away. “Thank you for protecting my family.”

Brock nodded, feeling himself flush at the attention. “Your wife had it well in hand,” he said, deflecting. “Yeah,” Clint said, throwing a warm look to Laura. “I told you she was a bad ass.” He turned to leave but Brock clasped a hand around his bicep.

“You should talk to James,” Brock said softly. Clint eyebrows raised in surprise before a look of realization flickered across his face and he grimaced. “Where?” Clint asked, to which Brock tossed his head in the direction of the back door. Clint nodded, mouth grim, before excusing himself.

A while later, longer than Brock had anticipated, and Clint returned with James moving like a shadow behind him. Without a word, the latter slipped out of the kitchen. What Brock wasn’t prepared for was the sharp tugging sensation he felt in his chest, something urging him in the general direction of upstairs.

He excused himself and took the stairs two and a time, slipping into the bedroom. James sat on the edge of the bed, an odd look on his face as he watched Brock’s arrival. “You good?” Brock said softly, stepping closer.

James didn’t say anything and Brock took another step forward, bringing him within arms length of the other man. Brock blinked as James’s hand snapped out, gripping the front of his shirt. With a lurch, Brock found himself yanked roughly forward, colliding against James’ muscular chest as the younger man tipped back.

Strong thighs bracketed him in on either side as lips latched onto his, rough stubble rasping at his chin. Hands grabbed greedily at his shirt and then slipped under. Brock gasped against those wicked lips as hands like ice slide up his back.

A heartbeat later and Brock was on his back, pinned down with two hundred odd pounds of super soldier nestled between his legs, arms braced on either side of his head.

Brock gazed up into those endless blue eyes and felt a warm thrum reverberate through the air around them. He reached up a hand, brushing silky dark hair back behind James’ ear tenderly. He had never been so gentle before, with anyone. There was a harshness to both of them, a vicious animalistic edge that made them unstoppable in their field of work. Well, former field of work, he supposed.

But with each other, it was nothing but gentle. It was warm and kind and tender. It wasn’t gentle in the way you treated something or someone fragile, with the anxious air of not wanting to cause damage. It was gentle restraint, strength in control. Wanting to give nothing but good to the other.

And when they finally did find rest, it was tangled around each other, so entwined that it was difficult to tell where one man ended and the other began. Brock’s head rested on James’ bare chest as he listened to the man’s steady breath and allow it to lull him into sleep.

 

 

  
Christmas morning came with bright sunshine twinkling in through the windows, sparkling on the ice crystals still frozen on the glass. Brock blinked sleepily, immediately missing the warm body beside him. He yawned, stretched, and stumbled downstairs to the amazing smell of cinnamon buns and coffee.

“Look Brock! Santa came!” Lila shrieked from the living room, dancing about the living room in her slippered feet with utter joy as her brother looked on, excitement more subtle but no less exuberant.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the mug of coffee Laura passed him. “Merry Christmas,” she said with a smile, moving back to the oven to remove another pan of cinnamon buns.

“Where’s James and Clint?” he asked, taking a sip of the coffee. He didn’t moan, detecting the subtle hints of hazelnut and cinnamon, but it was a near thing. “Out,” Laura said cryptically. “They should be back any moment.”

“Brock, Brock, come see! Come see!” Lila demanded, grabbing his hand and using every ounce of her strength to drag him into the living room.

It wasn’t long before Clint and James returned, stamping crisp snow from their boots and they came in. “Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas!” Clint boomed, tossing his coat at the banister and immediately donning a fluffy santa hat.

Brock felt his heart swell as James sent him a brief yet warm smile as he slipped into the living room, conspicuously not removing his bulky jacket. “It seems one of Santa’s presents got a little lost in transit,” Clint said in a dramatic voice, taking a seat beside Laura on the couch. “It hoped out of the sleigh at the neighbouring property. James and I had to go find it.”

At that precise moment, James’ jacket yipped.

Everyone froze.

The silence in the room lay thick as the children stared at James with wide eyes. Brock hide a smile as he watched James unzip his jacket, kneeling down to set a small fluffy something on the carpet.

Brindled in white, grey, and tan, with black spots and a big red bow around it’s neck, was a puppy.

“Oh,” Lila whispered as the puppy wobbled closer on shaky legs, plopping into a clumsy seated position in front of the two children. Brock searched out James, but the younger man only had eyes for the children, eyes guarded and hopeful.

The puppy yipped again, tongue lolling out of its mouth, and the silence broke. Lila squealed, scooping the puppy up in her arms as Cooper watched in excitement, reaching out to scratch the fluffy thing behind the ears.

The couch dipped as James sat down next to Brock, having taken his jacket off and laying it over the piano bench. “What’s his name?” Cooper asked excitedly, eyes darting between Clint and James.

“ _Her_ ,” Clint said. “And she doesn’t have a name. Figured we’d leave it up to you two.”

“What about Snowball?”

“Holly!”

“Princess!”

“Not Princess!”

“We’ll figure something out,” Laura said, calling a halt to the onslaught. “Thank you, thank you!” Lila squealed, leaping into her father’s lap. “Thank James,” Clint said, eyes searching out the aforementioned from across the room. “He’s the one that found her.”

In an instant James had a lapful of small child, a litany of thank you’s pouring from her mouth. “She’s a fortunate little lady to have you for a family,” James said, smiling softly at the girl. Laura’s face broke into a grin as she exchanged a look with Clint.

“I think that’s a perfect name,” Laura said. “None better,” Clint said, returning the smile. “What do you think kids?” A chorus of agreement echoed in the living room. Brock chuckled softly at the look of confusion on James’ face. Lila hopped off the man’s lap and sat down, cradling the puppy into her arms.

“Hello, Lady,” she said softly. Brock saw James’ throat bob as he swallowed. Lady yipped and the room exploded into laughter. “That’s it,” Clint said, tossing his hands in the air. “She’s spoken. It's final. Lady it is.”

Brock slipped a hand into James’, feeling a rush of feeling overwhelmed washed over him. He felt James thread his fingers through Brock’s and squeeze gently. Brock answered the squeeze before untangling his hand, opting instead for throwing his arm along the back of the couch. His fingers brushed the opposite side of James’ neck, nails scratching gently.

He felt James lean into the touch, smoothly sliding closer until their legs brushed up against the other. Brock felt eyes on him and looked up to see Clint watching them with a knowing smirk on his smug face. Brock opted for childishly sticking his tongue out at him. Clint laughed heartily before moving to pull his wife into his arms in a similar fashion, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Brock huffed a breath, allowing himself to bath in the warm glow of family, friends, and the holidays. He wasn’t so foolish or naive to believe that these good times would never end, but he was more than happy to enjoy them while they lasted.

 

That night Brock sat in the bedroom window seat, staring out across the yard, watching as the moon sparkled on the snow that blanketed the yard. Soft footsteps echoed behind him and glanced up to see James standing stoically beside him. Brock reached up, gently wrapping a hand around James' metal wrist and tugged. He refused to show any difference between the two limbs, never shying away from the touch of metal. 

James grumbled a little at being manhandled but allowed Brock guide him into a sitting position before pulling the younger man against his chest. Brock tucked his chin up against the man's shoulder, feeling scruff scratched gently against his cheek. He brushed his lips against James' cheek with a featherlight touch as they stared out into the night, watching as the stars slowly twinkled into existence. He wrapped his arms tightly around James, feeling fingers gently massage along his ankle. 

"Merry Christmas," Brock murmured gently in James' ear. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wishing you all a Happy Holidays! I'm hoping to post one more chapter before the end of the year but life is unpredictable and busy so it may be the last one until the New Year. Thanks so much for your continued support and feedback! Xoxo


	12. Everyone Is Someone's Devil

Brock woke shivering in the early air, the ice from his dreams still clinging to his bones. He blinked, James slowly coming into focus where he sat at the window, silhouetted against the dove grey early light. “You talk in your sleep,” James murmured, staring out the window. “Say anything interesting?” Brock yawned, stretching and wincing as his shoulder popped. “Kept calling me Jamie.”

“Suits you,” Brock chuckled. “Come back to bed,” he said, words punctuated with another yawn. James hesitated, eyes wary. Brock sighed. “What?” The man said nothing, continuing to stare out the window. “Don’t make me come over there,” Brock threatened teasingly. “It’s fucking freezing and not all of us run hot enough to double as a portable space heater.”

He waited but James didn’t respond. He’d gone so still he could almost be a statue, only the slight rise and fall of his chest betraying the fact he was actually alive. “Nothing?” Brock sighed.  
“Look man, I’m not a mindreader—,” he began but James interrupted him, so quietly Brock had to strain to hear him.

“Did you know?”

“What?” Brock said, feeling like he knew where this conversation was going and unsure if he was ready for it. “What they were doing to me,” James continued, slightly louder this time. “Did you know?”

“Not at first—,” Brock began. “Don’t lie to me,” James snapped harshly, eyes flicking to meet his as tension radiating from stiff shoulders. “Not at first,” Brock repeated clearly. He felt the heat from James’ glare searing through him from across the room. Brock huffed, moving back to lean up against the headboard. “We worked together for almost a year before I became your handler,” he explained. “Found out then.”

“And you did nothing,” James said softly. There was no anger in his voice, no accusation, not even disappointment. His voice was flat and toneless, no inflection at all. Nothing to give anything away. “I don’t know,” Brock said quietly. “I don’t remember.”

He really didn’t. He remembered missions and down days but so much of it was a jumble of missing pieces and flashes of feeling. For everything he now remembered, there was still a large blank void he couldn’t seem to fill no matter how hard he tried to remember. He had a feeling that void was an important bit.

“Convenient excuse,” James snorted. “It’s the truth,” Brock said stiffly. “You think I like not being able to remember shit?”

“Sometimes it’s better that way,” James muttered, his guard snapping back into place. It was subtle, but Brock knew the signs by now. The slight hunch in the shoulders, tension rippling through his forearms, the glassy look in his eyes. He shook it off before Brock had a chance to ask what was specifically wrong, what haunting memory had driven him out of bed so early.

“What do you think they wanted you to forget?” he asked, still staring out the window. Brock didn’t even have to think about the answer. He had figured it out pretty quick if he was being honest with himself. Just had taken him longer to actually believe it.

“You,” he said simply.  
  
That got the man’s attention. Bright blue eyes snapped to his, although Brock couldn't read whatever was swimming just beneath the surface. Brock shrugged. “Remember Pierce telling me that I made you weak. Couldn’t have that,” he chuckled bitterly.

James opened his mouth to reply, but there was a rushing roar that streaked over the house. “Quinjet’s landing across the river,” James said instead, getting to his feet. “You should probably put pants on.”

“Naw, I’ll just stay here,” Brock grumbled, burying himself down into the covers. “Leave the superhero shit to the super soldiers—hey!” he squawked as the covers were sharply yanked away and he was momentarily blinded by a pair of jeans tossed over his face.

“Fuck off,” Brock growled, more affection than venom in his voice. “Get up or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you down,” James threatened as he zipped up a dark green hoody that was a little snug around the shoulders, telling Brock it was one of his. “Don’t try me.”

“ _Don’t try me_ ,” Brock mimicked in a squeaky voice as he hiked his jeans up over his hips. Some might think he was just being an asshole when he treated James like that, but it was actually a carefully crafted strategy. Whether or not it was the smartest strategy to be snarky towards the highly trained and slightly unstable former assassin, Brock had found it was the best way to pull James out of these dangerous sulky moods. He had a feeling that other people, ahem Rogers, had treated him with kid gloves when he was like this and it did no one any good. If anything it made James more tense and moody, bringing more anger bubbling to the surface.

“You’re such a brat, you know that?” James smirked as he tied his hair back in a low ponytail, the gloomy anger already beginning to dissipate. Brock, feeling particularly impish, stuck his tongue out. James just rolled his eyes. “Case in point,” he grumbled as he headed out of the bedroom, leaving Brock to follow.

 

They found Rogers in the kitchen, along with Romanoff and Clint. All three looked grim.“We need to talk,” he said lightly. Rogers’ eyes flicked briefly and cooly over Brock, hesitating. “He stays,” James said shortly. He crossed his arms over his chest, body language clearly stating he won’t accept any other alternative. “Alright,” Rogers said quietly, face carefully blank.

“That mission over Christmas?” the man began as James slid into a chair, Brock opting for leaning against the kitchen counter behind him. He crossed his arms over his chest, fixing a bored look on his face while his eyes were sharp and calculating as Roger’s continued explaining. “We found records.”

“On hard copy disks,” Romanoff interjected. Brock's stifled a twitch. He had to tolerate the woman, regardless of his personal feelings. “Not digital so they weren’t dumped onto the internet with the rest of the files. Whatever was on them, they didn’t want anyone finding out about it.”

“A lot of it was corrupted,” Rogers continued. “But Tony was able to recover some. It talked about a base, not on any other records. There was something about evaluations and observations. Test subjects.” Rogers hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with whatever was going to come next. Romanoff finished for him. “We think it was where they held you when they transferred you from Russia.”

For all James looked at ease, lounging back in the chair with one arm thrown casually across the back, Brock could tell the younger man was on edge. Tension rippled across James’ shoulders and he was drumming his fingers softly against the tabletop. Brock focused inwards, extending feelings of calm and support, like a grounding hand on a shoulder, towards the other man. The longer they were together, the stronger the bond seemed to grow. Brock was finding it easier to understand how to send feelings to the other, as well as how to hide his own.

Slowly, he saw James’ shoulders relax, the tension ebbing out of them. “When do we leave?” the younger man asked. “As soon as possible,” Rogers said grimly. “We currently have the element of surprise. The longer we wait the more likely HYDRA finds out what we’re up to.” Brock couldn't help but smirk as Rogers’ cold eyes flicked to him.

There was a beat and then James was on his feet. “A word?” he murmured, locking eyes with the taller man. Brock raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t even said anything yet.

He followed James out into the hallway that led to the foyer. “I need to ask where you stand,” James said stiffly, turning around to face him. Brock frowned, knowing James wasn't asking it in the literal sense. He shook his head, still not really understanding. “Where are your loyalties?” James asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I don’t—,” Brock began but then stopped. It clicked. It all suddenly made perfect, painful sense.

They were going to a HYDRA facility, one that may or may not be abandoned. This was James’ way of saying he wanted him to come but probably realized that he had never asked Brock if he was still loyal to HYDRA.

Brock had joined HYDRA out of anger, resentment, and a deep-buried desire to help. The latter had been killed off very quickly and then all that had been left was the anger. Eventually that too died away and all that was left was survival; to fight for himself and the few people around him that he still cared for. After the fall of HYDRA, there had been no one left to care about.

But now Brock had someone else to fight for again.

“I need to know,” James said quietly, tension beginning to seep back into his body. He nibbled lightly at his bottom lip, a nervous habit that Brock had noticed he had picked up of late. Brock swallowed. There was no question of what his answer was going to be. No hesitation, no regret, no contemplation.

“I’m with you,” Brock said simply.

Blue eyes met flint brown and held. Brock found himself drifting closer, stopping just shy of touch, fingertips brushing fingertips in the gentlest of touches. “No matter what,” he whispered. He watched carefully as the younger man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. The air thrummed with tension but it quickly settled as James smirked. “Sap,” he teased, but his eyes overflowed with all the emotions that usually made Brock uncomfortable.

“You love it, don’t lie,” Brock said with an answering smirk. Then faltered. That wasn’t a word that had ever been exchanged between the two of them. It made everything too close, too real, too…something they weren’t ready to talk about yet.

James said nothing, smile just growing wider in wake of Brock’s discomfort. “Shut up,” Brock growled, feeling a blush creep up his neck. James just chuckled under his breath, brushing his shoulder against the shorter man’s as they headed back to the kitchen.

 

To say Rogers was unhappy with Brock accompanying them was a massive understatement. He had pulled James aside, face still carefully blank. The quiet murmur of voices quickly escalated and probably would have devolved into a full blown fight if Romanoff hadn’t intervened.

After Clint pulled Rogers aside, he finally seemed to concede. Brock could tell he wasn’t happy, another massive understatement, by the cold looks the man kept throwing back at him as the quinjet roared across the night sky.

It was a long flight to this secret base, buried deep in some godforsaken middle of nowhere. Clint sat across the way where he was doing some mechanical maintenance on his bow while Romanoff kept Rogers company in the cockpit. James was curled up next to him, leaning against the bulkhead with his boots planted in the seat beside Brock. His arms were tucked around himself and he looked to be fast asleep, chest rising and falling softly.

Brock for his part was currently going over the assault rifle Clint had given him, eyes alert as his fingers ran over every inch of the weapon. He was contemplating trying to get some shuteye himself when he felt a metallic tasting twang ripple through the air. He sighed, feeling the others eyes on him as he set the rifle aside and turned to James.

At first glance the dark-haired man seemed to just be sleeping but Brock knew the tiny telltale signs, even without the bond. The way the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly, the tension that rippled through his muscles, the way his jaw jumped as he ground his teeth.

“Hey, James,” Brock called softly, moving to the side so he wouldn’t get kicked. He knew the drill. He’d had to wake James up more than once from a nightmare and it was more often than not violent. “James,” he said a little louder, placing a gentle hand on the man’s knee.

That was all it took.

Brock jerked back, slapping away the right hook that lashed towards his face. He wasn't able to dodge the sneaky kick James somehow managed to land against his solar plexus. Brock stumbled back with a grunt, ever thankful that he had been close enough that James hadn’t managed to get a ton of power behind the blow. As it was, it still felt like a mull kick.

Stomping feet echoing across metal distracted Brock for only a split second but it was enough. A vicious backhand, thankfully from James’ flesh hand, caught the corner of his jaw, snapping his head sideways.

“Bucky!” he heard Rogers snap sharply as hands grabbed the front of his jacket and slammed him up against the bulkhead. He winced, grabbing at the man’s wrists, one warm and one cool. He stared down into shatter-glass blue eyes, glazed with sleep and panic. He saw Rogers’ striding towards them and waved him down frantically. The worst thing the man could do right now was to grab at James when he was still disorientated and confused.

Clint laid a hand on Rogers’ bicep, whispering fiercely in his ear. Satisfied the archer could handle the man, Brock turned his attention back to James. “You done?” he said harshly. James started, blinking at him owlishly. Realization flashed across the younger man’s face and his hands were gone from Brock’s jacket in an instant.

 _Oh, no you don’t,_ Brock thought. Ignoring his own advice, he latched a hand onto James’ vest as the man turned to flee and yanked him back. There was a tremendous echoing crack as James’ metal fist buried itself in the metal bulkhead next to Brock’s head. Brock didn’t even flinched, gritting his teeth against the painful ringing in his ear. “Don’t grab me like that,” James whispered harshly, face scant inches away from Brock’s. “Okay,” Brock breathed back, not to break eye contact.

He watched James blink, slowly coming back to himself. His throat bobbed as he swallowed and something cleared from his eyes. Brock felt the panic/guilt/pain thrum through the air. “Fuck,” James breathed. “You’re good, you’re fine,” Brock murmured, staying very still. “You back?”

“Yeah,” James said, breathing harshly out through his nose like a startled horse. This time when James pulled away, Brock let him. He pushed past Rogers and his concerned eyes and strode out to the side of the plane where Brock knew the small bathroom was. Brock avoided the other’s eyes as he strode back to his seat and threw himself down into it.

He noticed the immediate absence of Rogers and stifled a sigh. The man meant well, Brock could tell, but he had no clue how to handle James when he was like it. Brock himself didn’t know what to do half the time but he’d figured out pretty quickly that James wouldn’t be handled, or coddled for that matter. After an episode like that, he would feel embarrassed and guilty and more often than not just needed to disappear for a bit and be on his own. As if to confirm that very fact, a harsh voice snapped through the inside of the jet.

“ _Fuck off, Steve!_ ”

Brock sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. He winced as it came away bloody and wiped the rest off his chin from where James had obviously split his lip. Rogers came storming back. He didn’t look at anyone, just beelined it to the cockpit and slide into the pilot seat again.

Romanoff stood at the same time Brock did. She shot him a knowing look before heading over to sit in the copilot’s seat next to Rogers. Brock left her to deal with that and ducked around to corner.

He found James in the small bathroom, hands planted on the wall with his head hanging low over the sink. Brock crossed his arms and leaned in the doorway, giving James enough space as to not feel trapped.

And then he waited.

Brock wasn’t normally a very patience man, but when it came to James he could be. Finally, James huffed a deep breath. “Fuck,” he breathed and cleared his throat. He sniffed sharply and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Perfect fucking timing,” he muttered, untying the band that really wasn't keeping his hair out of his face anymore.

Brock winced as James yanked his hair roughly back, looping the band around. With a sharp snap it broke in half, a protest against the rough treatment. “Fuck,” James snapped, really hanging on by just a thread.

“Here,” Brock said softly. A half step forward and he plucked the band from James’ stiff fingers. He swiftly tied it back together. “I got it,” he said, moving slowly and deliberately into the very small space to stand behind the taller man. Standing on tiptoe, he carefully ran his fingers through James’ hair, combing it back and gathering it firmly with the band.

Mission accomplished, he crossed his arms again and leaned casually against the wall as he watched James breath. Literally that was all he was doing. Hands planted on his hips, head hanging low, just breathing. With a sniff, James finally turned around, leaning back against the sink.

“I dreamed of falling,” he said hoarsely, staring at his boots. “Steve was there, reaching…the look in his eyes just…,” he trailed off, chewing on his lip. “Fuck,” he cursed once again, pinching a hand across his eyes. “I think you should talk to Steve,” Brock said softly, the man’s first name feeling weird on his tongue. James shook his head sharply. “Steve always wants to talk. I don’t want to talk,” he said softly. “So tell him,” Brock said reasonably.

James said nothing else but didn’t try and stop Brock as he slipped out so he considered that as acceptance. “Rogers,” Brock snapped out as he made his way back to the main section of the jet. Rogers’ eyes snapped up to him, Romanoff pausing mid sentence. Brock jerked a thumb behind him before heading back to his seat.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rogers exchange a look with Romanoff before heading towards the bathroom. Brock took up James’ abandoned seat, leaning up against the bulkhead and closing his eyes. There was no way he could fall asleep, but he could at least rest.

It was a long while before soft footsteps made the hair prickle on his neck. He opened his eyes as James sat down at his feet, looking tired but far more peaceful than he had before. “Wanna talk about it?” he offered. “No,” James said crisply, avoiding eye contact. “You good?” Brock asked, closing his eyes again.

“You ask me that a lot,” James said mildly. “Want me to stop?” Brock asked, not bothering to open his eyes. “No,” was the soft reply. Some metallic clicks and clinks told Brock that James was working on his rifle.

It wasn’t long before Brock hear a shift in the sound of the engines. “We’re here,” Rogers called from the cockpit. Brock opened his eyes to find everyone on their feet and gathering their gear. “You good?” he asked again as he shrugged on his tac vest. James snorted, clipping his rifle strap to his vest.

“I’m good,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders to settle his vest more comfortably. Brock reached forward, yanking at an errant strap that had come a little loose. He felt Rogers’ eyes on him as the blonde man strode past them down the ramp. “I got your back,” Brock said quietly, handing over a bowie knife hilt first.

“I know,” James said with a smirk, accepting the knife and sliding the blade home into a hip sheath.

 

 

 

 

James took a breath, pushing away the doubts and fears and settling into the Soldier. It wasn’t as if there were two people living inside his head, although sometimes it felt like it. It was just how he operated. Compartmentalization, Matt called it. Tucking parts of himself away so he could focus on the mission. He felt a thrum of calming strength and settled even more. It helped knowing that Brock was at his back.

Breaching the building had been easy. It was obvious that it had long been abandoned. Dust was everywhere, dirt and cobwebs caking the hallways as they carefully made their way through. “Anything look familiar?” Steve asked in a hushed voice. “No,” James replied.

It was true. Nothing about this place was familiar. Nothing triggered repressed memories. “I’ve never been here before.”

“Could we have gotten it wrong?” Steve asked, looking back down the line to Natasha who shook her head. “I read it to. They definitely did something here, even if it wasn’t related to Barnes.”

As they spoke, Clint folded in from the side hallway he had disappeared down moments ago, dusting spiderwebs from his gear. “Well, this isn’t creepy at all,” he commented mildly, folding in beside James as they made their way through the hallways, ending up at a crossroads.

“Romanoff, Barton, take right,” Steve ordered, tossing a look back to Brock and James. “You two, with me.” They split up, following Steve down a long hallway. The hallway eventually took a sharp left and the hallway ended abruptly with a large steel door.

Steve threw a look to James, waiting for his nod before yanking the door open. With a shrieking creak of rusted hinges, the door slowly opened. Stale air and old blood assaulted the senses and James wrinkled his nose at the smell. They stepped into the small dark room. James heard Steve fumbling for the lights, finally finding the switched out in the hallway. Light blossomed in the empty room and James felt his stomach drop into his boots.

The room was small, concrete and windowless. A drain sat in the floor in the middle. Rusted manacles hung on chains above the drain. James swallowed thickly, realizing that what he took for rust was actually old blood. None of this was what cause his heart to lurch.

He knew this place, but not from any experience of his own.

He spun on his heels, eyes finding Brock who stood frozen in the doorway, rifle hanging from limp fingers at his side. His eyes stared blankly into the room. The man had his emotions on lockdown, James could tell. He felt nothing through the bond. It was like staring into a blank void.

“Brock,” James ask quietly, causing Steve to turn as well, a small frown on his face. “This isn’t right,” Brock breathed, voice soft in a dramatic contrast to the tension that seemed to radiate from him in waves.

“Rumlow,” Steve said, voice heavy with concern as he stepped up beside James. “This can’t be here,” the dark haired man whispered, breath coming out stuttered and rough. “What’s going on?” Steve asked, eyes flicking between the two men, but James only had eyes for Brock. “Come on,” he said, striding forward and placing a hand on Brock’s shoulder.

“This can’t be here,” the shorter man repeated, eyes unblinking and unwavering as they stared into the room. “Brock,” James said sternly, squeezing hard enough to break the spell. Brock’s eyes snapped to his, confusion and shock waring for dominance in his dark eyes. “Let’s go,” James said quietly, but firmly.

He pulled Brock away and back down the hallway. The shorter man moved as if a doll, allowing James’ hand to guide him around the corner. “Look at me. Hey, look at me,” James said firmly, gripping the back of Brock’s neck with his flesh hand. He saw Steve come around the corner in his peripheral vision, eyes wide, but James kept his focus on the man in front of him who was on the edge of a panic attack.

“Look at me,” he said again, punctuating his words by tightening his hand on the man’s neck. Brock’s eyes met his, but James could tell the man was slipping into shock. “You good?” James asked, painfully aware of the drastic role reversal mirroring what had happened mere hours ago.

Brock shook his head, eyes looking over-bright. “I don’t…I…,” Brock stuttered, breath catching in his throat. “Easy,” James murmured. He let his rifle hang on its strap and placed his other hand on the older man’s chest. “Just breathe.”

“Guys, we found something you need to see,” Natasha’s voice cracked through their comms. “Come on,” James urged, keeping the hand firmly on Brock’s neck as Steve led the way, murmuring with Natasha over the comms.

After a few steps Brock shook himself out of the stupor, shrugging James’ hand away. “I’m fine,” he growled. James begged to differ but didn't push it as they strode into what looked like a large records room filled with antiquated computers and stacks of filing cabinets. Natasha sat at a computer while Clint lounged against the desk nearby, looking grim. “What is it?” Steve asked briskly. “You should…just watch,” Clint said hesitantly, throwing an unreadable look at Brock. James had a feeling he already knew what they were about to see. Natasha clicked away at the keyboard, pulling up a video file.

The video played, thankfully without sound. It was a security camera from within the small room. The door flung open and two burly men dragged a hooded man inside. The hood was ripped off, revealing a bruised and bloodied Brock Rumlow.

James felt a flash across the bond, something that felt like hot metal and sandpaper, but it was gone even faster than it hit. He glanced across at Brock, whose jaw muscles were jumping at he stared at the screen. That was the only hint that something was amiss, that and the white-knuckled grip the shorter man had on his rifle.

The video continued, with two other men entering and beginning to methodically strip down Brock. “That’s enough,” James growled as the men in the video clamped the manacles around the dark haired man’s wrists. "Enough!" he barked as the men began to winch Brock up to hang from the ceiling. Natasha shut down the video. James swallowed as all eyes turn to the former STRIKE Commander.

“I don’t understand,” Brock said again in that soft, almost gentle tone. “That happened in Sudan. I was captured in Sudan. This can’t be here.”

“There are more videos like it,” Natasha continued, eyes sharp as always as they took in Brock’s reactions. “Dozens in fact,” Clint added, in they way those two often did, trading sentences back and forth like they were the same person. “All the same,” Natasha finished. “Best we can tell, it seems to be a sort of recruitment process for prospective HYDRA agents.”

“Recruitment?” Brock breathed, clearly clamping down on the emotions that bubbled just under the surface. “But this happened years before I joined HYDRA. Before I left the military,” he said roughly. “It doesn't make sense.”

“There’s more,” Natasha continued as Clint grimaced. James stifled a sigh, schooling his expression to be carefully blank. What else could there possibly be? Natasha pulled up another video. This one had two men lowering Brock down from the ceiling while a third man watched at a distance. All three wore black masks that completely obscured their faces. They all watched, tense, as Natasha pulled up a second video.

This angle showed the two men dragging a hooded and bloodied Brock out of the room and down the hallway, out of sight of the camera. The third man lingered, step heavy and hesitant as he stepped out into the hallway after them. Imposing shoulders and a broad torso boasted well defined muscles underneath the generic black shirt.

After a beat, the man reached up a hand and pulled the mask off with what looked like a heavy sigh. Dark hair was revealed, slightly ruffled from the hood and pulled out of its usual slicked back style. A square face boasted a strong jaw with a thick scar wrapping around one corner, just like the scattered fragments of Brock's dreams.

 _Jack Rollins_ lingered another moment before stepping out of camera range.

Silence lay heavily over the room, broken only by the sound of heavy combat boots on cement as Brock turned on his heel and fled. “Damnit,” James spat, rushing after the man, leaving the others to follow or not. He ignored Steve calling after him. He really didn't care. All he cared about right now was Brock.

The fact the older man had somehow completely shut him out made James feel very off balance. He couldn’t feel anything over the bond. The man had always been conservative with his feelings, but James could always feel something, even just a presence. Now there was nothing but an empty voice resonating where the bond should be.

“Brock,” he called out after the man as he slammed open the exterior door and stomped out into the snow. “Brock, wait,” he cried, quickening his gait in order to catch up with the dark haired man. “Leave me alone, James,” the other man spat over his shoulder, barely slowly as he headed back towards the quinjet.

Behind him, James heard the others hurrying after them but once again, he didn’t pay them any attention. He finally caught up with Brock, reaching out a hand to grab the other man’s bicep. “Just wait—,” his words were cut off mid sentence as Brock whirled around, cracking his fist across James’ jaw. His head snapped back from the blow in the same instant but it was enough time for Brock to gain distance on him.

By the time James strode up into the quinjet, Brock had already finished preflight. James glanced back as the other three bounded up the ramp before striding into the cockpit. “We have everyone?” Brock asked crisply, not even glancing back at him. “Yeah,” James said.

“I got it from here,” Steve said softly, clapping a gentle hand on Brock’s shoulder. Wrong move. Steve’s hand had barely brushed the man’s shoulder before Brock had slapped his hand away. There was a tense moment as the two men squared off, but Brock was the one to eventually back down, nostrils flaring like an cornered animal. He strode to the other end of the jet and threw himself into a seat as he began stripping off his gear.

James stumbled a little as the jet’s engines roared and they slowly rose into the sky. “I think we should head back to New York,” Steve said calmly as he smoothly navigated the jet into the sky. “Yeah, sure,” James sighed, eyes not leaving Brock. “That okay, Clint?” Steve tossed over his shoulders. “Fine,” the archer replied quietly.

James made his way down the jet, stopping just shy of Brock. “We’re headed back to New York,” he said lightly as Brock tossed his tac vest onto the seat beside him. “If that’s okay with y—.”

“It’s fine,” Brock interrupted stiffly, standing to strip off his thigh holster, tossing that atop the vest. “If you want to—.” Again, James didn’t get to finish his sentence as Brock cut him off again, finally looking up at meeting his gaze.

“Back the fuck off!” he snarled.

James flinched at the over-bright shattered look that reflected back from those dark eyes. The flash of regret and guilt that flickered across Brock’s face was quickly buried as the man flung himself down back into the seat, pointedly looking down as he stripped off his gloves.

James swallowed and stepped away. He sat down next to Clint, who was removing his arm guards. The archer bumped his shoulder against his in support. James just sighed again and settled himself in for a long flight.

 

The second the jet touched down at the tower, Brock was on his feet. He was down the ramp before it had even finished descending, gear thrown roughly over his shoulder. He brushed past Stark, who looked after him with a small frown. “What crawled up his ass and died?” he asked rudely as James walked wearily down the ramp. James just shook his head and continued past him. Let the others tell Stark what had happened. He didn’t have the energy.

He figured Brock wouldn’t accept his company just yet, so he went to his and Steve’s shared floor instead. He showered quickly and changed into a pair of sweats and hoody before asking Jarvis where to find Brock. “Agent Rumlow is in the gym sir,” the AI replied, something that almost sounded like concern laced through his voice.

As James stepped out of the elevator, he could hear the telltale thwack of the heavy bag and harsh breathing. He rounded the corner to find Brock, still in the black pants and shirt he had worn on the mission. Sweat darkened his hair even more and slicked it back against his forehead. The man was going full force at the heavy bag completely bare knuckled. The skin across said knuckles was split and already beginning to bruise, smearing blood across the bag as Brock continued to pummel the leather. James grimaced. He should have gotten here sooner.

“You need wraps,” James said calmly as he closed the distance between them. The man ignored him, not slowing his assault. If anything, his strikes became harder, faster, more desperate. He was going to hurt himself if he kept this up. “Stop, stop!” James snapped, stepping forward. “You’re gonna break something.”

Again, James reached a hand to Brock’s bicep and again, the older man whirled on him, lashing out with a closed fist. This time James was ready. He ducked the punch, coming up with his expression carefully reserved. He tucked his own feelings away because there seemed to be only one way the man seemed to be able to deal with anything right now.

“Okay, fine,” James said softly and surged forward.

He got up under Brock’s guard, the man clearly not expecting him to attack. He grabbed Brock around the hips and lifted. Three swift strides and he tossed the shorter man roughly onto the sparring mats. Brock landed heavily on his back, using the momentum to his advantage and rolling smoothly to his feet. Pure, unbridled rage burned hot in his eyes. His hands clenched into shaking fists by his sides as he stared stiffly back at James.

“You wanna fight so bad, let’s fight,” James said, cracking his neck as he stepped up onto the mats. “Come on, tough guy,” he mocked when the shorter man didn’t move, a flicker of confusing sneaking in with the anger.

“Come on!” he roared.

That seemed to be enough. With a snarl, Brock threw himself at James and the fight began. They danced around each other, punches and kicks flying. James held back, more often than not dodging and weaving around the other man as opposed to connecting directly. He didn't want to hurt Brock. James just wanted to let him tire himself out. Emotion and fatigue were making Brock sloppy, his blows erratic and desperate. The fight lasted far longer than James was anticipating or hoping. Sweat began to trickling down his back and made his shirt stick to his chest uncomfortably.

Finally Brock over reached with a vicious right hook, sending him too far forward and off his centre. James took his advantage, twisting Brock around before flipping them both down to the mats. They landed hard, the air slamming from Brock’s lungs with a gasp. James didn't give him time to recover and twisted Brock around into a chokehold. He kept his grip loose enough as to not actually choke the man, but tight enough that Brock couldn’t escape however much he tried. James said nothing as Brock flailed against him, spitting curses and insults, and just held on.

Eventually the fight drained out of Brock. He had nothing left and simply slumped exhausted back against James’ chest. “You done?” James said, echoing Brock’s earlier words to him. Brock nodded, gasping.

James let him go and Brock flung himself away as if the other man’s touch burned him. He rolled into a siting position, gasping. Sweat dripped onto the mats, the muscles in his arms trembling as they barely managed to hold him upright. James’ heart clenched as he watched the man before him shiver. He crawled closer, sitting far enough away as to not crowd but close enough to touch. With a sniff, Brock pushed himself into a sitting position, planting his feet in front of him and resting his elbows on his knees. His head hung low as his chest heaved.

James wasn't sure what to say. What were you supposed to say in such a situation? Brock always seemed to know what to say, when James was having an episode or panic attack. Now that the roles were reversed, James was at a bit of a loss.

“Talk to me,” he said softly.

Brock flinched, eyes darting up to settle on something just over James’ shoulder. His breath was coming out at a stuttering pace and his jaw muscles twitched. “You keep telling me to talk,” James continued gently. “It’s a two way street.” James though Brock wouldn’t answer. He thought the man would scramble away, retreating to who knows where to probably drink until he passed out. Not an option James wanted to happen. Finally, after what felt like ages kneeling on the mats, Brock finally answered.

“How could I have not know?" he whispered, voice rough and broken. "I saw his fucking face. How could I not know?"

James said nothing, just sliding closer. Slowly, ever so slowly in order to let Brock have a chance to pull away, he reached up to cup the side of the man’s face. It was like skin contact cause the dam to break and a torrid of emotions flooded into that blank void James had been struggling with all day. He closed his eyes against the overwhelming tide of confusion, disbelief, rage, and pain. God, the pain. It was blinding, tinged thickly with deep seeded betrayal and utter helplessness.

“I trusted him,” Brock whispered, tears spilling silently down his cheeks as his eyes found James’.

 _“I trusted him_. _”_

Those three words became a murmured litany as James gently pulled the shattered man against him. A hand fisted in the front of his shirt as he brought Brock’s head to rest against his shoulder. His other arm wrapped protectively around the man’s shaking shoulders, his cheek pressed against damp curls. He wasn’t sure how long he held him, trying to project calm and support over the bond.

He was so engrossed in the man in his arms he didn’t hear the soft footsteps out in the hall, or the bright blue eyes that peered in disbelief around the corner of the gym. They lingered only a moment before retreating, obviously not wanting to intrude further.

Eventually, Brock stopped shaking. They stayed like that, wrapped in each others arms, for a while longer before Brock pulled away, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Come on,” James said gently, helping the man to his feet. He put a supportive arm around the man’s shoulders, which Brock promptly shrugged off. “I can fucking walk myself,” he snapped wetly, stumbling out of the gym without a glance back.

James trotted after him, making it to the elevators just to have the doors close in his face. He huffed a sigh, waiting as patiently as he could for Jarvis to send it back down. By the time he got to Brock’s suite the man was already in the bathroom, door closed and shower running. James poured a glass of water, draining it in three gulps before refilling it and carrying it up stairs. He set it down on the small table on the side Brock had slept on when they were on the farm and then stripped off his sweaty clothes.

He rummaged around, finding a pair of Brock’s sweatpants that fit. He hesitated only briefly before climbing under the covers. If Brock didn’t want him here, tough. The last thing the man needed right now was to be alone, that James was sure of. He rolled over, putting his back to the stairs in a show of trust and staring out the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the city. It really was an absolutely breathtaking view.

It was a good two hours before the shower was finally shut off and another hour before soft footstep padded up the stairs. James listened as the steps faltered and he held his breath. He didn’t hear anything else until he felt the bed dip slightly as Brock sat down on it.

Silenced echoed loudly around them. James chest felt like it was tied in knots but it wasn’t his place to extend comfort. Not now. Brock had to come to him. James wasn’t sure how he knew that was the right call, but he knew it was.

“I’m sorry,” a soft voice said into the silence.

James rolled over to find Brock’s back presented to him, shoulders slumped as the older man slouched in exhaustion, both physical and mental. “The fuck you have to apologize for?” James said quietly. “I hit you,” Brock whispered painfully.

James felt the regret and guilt echo between them across the bond, but that wasn’t all. Fear lay there too, stiff and uncomfortable. “It’ll take more than a couple hits to chase me away, dumbass,” James replied. Brock’s breath hitched, whether a laugh or a sob James couldn’t be sure.

“What do you need?” he asked softly.

He felt more than saw Brock tense in surprise and James couldn’t help but wonder if anyone had ever asked him that. The man threw a surprised look over his shoulder and James made sure to send nothing but quiet comfort and support across the invisible thread-like connection that had slowly been growing stronger between them over the past few months. “I don’t know,” the older man whispered roughly, looking completely lost. “Then come to bed,” James said simply. Brock hesitated, swallowing thickly.

“We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” James whispered, parroting Brock’s own words back at him once again.

That seemed to do the trick and Brock stiffly crawled under the covers. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. James made no move to touch him. He just shifted into a more comfortable position, tucking one hand under the pillow, and closed his eyes. He listened to Brock’s breathing as the man took a shaky breath. He waited, knowing that the man would come to him when ready.

Eventually, after what felt like ages, he felt the bed shift and a tentative touch brushed his cheek. He opened his eyes to dark eyes over-bright and lost. A spiky feeling lodged itself under James’ ribcage and he had to remind himself how to breath again. He reached up, brushing his thumb across Brock’s sharp cheekbone.

He slid his hand up, tangling it into his hair and gently pulling him forward. Brock resisted only a fraction before allowing James to guide him closer. He slide his arm under, cushioning Brock’s head while burying the other in his thick black hair, still damp from the shower. Brock’s forehead rested on his shoulder and James felt a strong arm wrap rightly around his middle.

James brushed his lips gently across the older man’s temple as his fingers carded through his hair. James stayed awake long into the night. He waited until Brock’s breathing finally slowed and evened. He waited until his muscles relaxed fully. Only then did he himself court sleep, slowly drifting off to the gentle sound of the other’s man’s breath.

 

 

Come morning, James found an empt bed and Brock already downstairs, a coffee mug gripped tightly in his hands. Well, if you could call it morning. The sun was just barely beginning to peak over the buildings, indicating they had probably gotten around three hours of sleep max. James couldn't stifle the yawn as he stumbled downstairs and poured himself a mug before topping up Brock’s.

“You should go back to bed,” Brock said, voice rough and raspy. “I’m fine,” James said, taking a sip and wincing at the bitterness. It did help clear his head. He had often wondered if that was just a psychosomatic response, as his body surly didn't rely on caffeine in the same way.

Brock winced as James took his hands and pulled it across the counter. He tsked at the bruised, swollen, torn skin that scattered across the man’s knuckles. “I know, I know,” Brock grumbled, pulling his hand back. James strode across to the bathroom and returned with an antiseptic cream. He ignored Brock’s protests as he sat beside the man and snatched up the closest hand.

“I don’t need to be babied,” Brock snapped as James gently rubbed the ointment across his knuckles. “I’m not babying you,” James snapped back, albeit with a tad less venom. “I’m watching out for you. There’s a difference.”

Brock huffed, clearly wanting to argue the point further, but didn't and allowed James to take care of both his hands before putting the cab back on the ointment. “How are you doing?” James asked. “Peachy,” Brock snarked, draining the rest of his coffee with a wince. “Yeah, stupid question,” James muttered.

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to rip him apart,” Brock snarled softly, his tone in terrifying contrast to the vicious words. “I want to rip him apart until there’s recognizable nothing left. I want to break him like he broke me. But he’s dead anyways so it doesn’t fucking matter.” He choked himself off, hands clenching into fists.

The air felt dark and spiky, the bond practically vibrating with anger between them. James had to take a deep breath to calm the killing rage that bubbled in his chest, a rage he knew wasn’t his. “How about we start with breakfast instead?” James suggested mildly. Brock turned to him, eyes wide and more than a little surprised. James just raised an eyebrow. A harsh laugh burst past Brock’s lips and he shook his head in disbelief. James took that as a win and headed round the breakfast bar. He busied himself in the kitchen for a while, pulling together ingredients for pancakes from scratch. He was just heating up the pan when a soft whisper caught his ear.

“Thanks Jamie,” he heard murmured softly behind him.

James felt a small smile tug at his lips. He turned back around, leaning across the countertop to gently capture the other man’s lips with his own. He felt Brock hesitate for a fraction of a second before leaning into the kiss. 

They spent the day on the couch, eating pancakes and takeout and watching reruns of old sitcoms. Brock really didn't want to talk about it anymore and James didn't push. Most of the day was spent in comfortable silence, interrupted only by the TV. James massaged the seized knots from Brock's shoulders and applied more ointment to his hands. Half way through the day Clint dropped in, literally, loaded down with pop tarts and beer. He stayed until the sun had long since disappeared before the horizon before saying his goodbyes. He paused to squeeze a comforting hand on Brock's shoulder before disappearing back up into the vents. 

They stayed up long into the night, James refusing to sleep while Brock lay awake and Brock refusing to sleep in general. Eventually James was able to coax the man up into bed. He sat and read softly from a book of poetry. Brock's head eventually found it's way onto his chest and he gently carded his fingers through the man's hair as he read. When they finally did find sleep, it was with James' arms wrapped protectively around the other man. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of angst in this one and it's only gonna get worse! Congrats to Balrog_Roike for guessing where this part of the story was headed! But can you guess what will happen next!? ;)
> 
> And look at me! Another chapter before the New Year! Before Christmas even. This chapter just really flowed and once I started writing it I couldn't seem to stop. I keep trying to hold onto chapters a little longer, but I can never seem to do it. I hope you are enjoying where this story is headed. I'm so excited to share it with you all!


	13. Hurt Me Once, I'll Break You Twice

  
"How are you doing?"

It seemed like a bit of an idiotic question to Brock. He'd been drinking himself into a stupor more nights than not these days and Brock had a feeling Matt knew this too. People didn't do that when they were feeling fine.

"I'm fine," he said anyways because that's what you said. He just wished his voice didn't sound so rough.

At James' insistence, he'd come to see Matt. Rationally, he knew that it was the smart thing to do but talking about his traumatic experiences with the man he used to sleep with was pushing it a little for him.

"I heard your team found more tapes," Matt said. "Not my team," Brock said automatically because they weren't and would never be. They were James' team, people who cared about him, who trusted him and had his back regardless of what he had done because it wasn't his fault. He hadn't had a choice. Not like Brock.

Brock's team was either dead or in prison.

"Yeah, they found more tapes," Brock said flatly before Matt had a chance to comment on that little tidbit. He cleared his throat, swallowing down the thickness that seemed to well up and made it hard to talk. "Dozens of potential recruits. It wasn't just me." He shifted in his seat, leather crinkling softly.

"Sleeping any better?" Matt asked innocently, although that was a question he probably knew the answer to as well. The last time he'd seen Matt, the man had offered him pills but Brock flatly refused. He never took sleep aids. The dead-to-the-world sleep that was brought on by pharmaceuticals was terrifying to put it simply.

"A little," Brock lied. It was easy to lie. Far easier than the truth. Because Brock wasn't sleeping. He'd pretend or just wait until James was asleep and then slip out of bed. He'd hit the gym in the middle of the night or sit in the kitchen drinking far too much coffee than is strictly healthy. Sleep was scary because what if he dreamed? What if he remembered?

Matt gave him a look that saw right through the white lie and seemed to dig up everything that Brock was trying to keep under wraps. Like how fucking fragile he felt these days and how much he hated it.

He wasn't broken.

He refused to be broken and he resented the people who seemed to think otherwise. James wasn’t like that, thank fuck. He didn't treat him like he was expecting Brock to crumble before his very eyes. There wasn't anything worse than being treated like you're breakable.

That had happened when he had been rescued from Sudan. Or released from the middle of the continental US as it turned out. His team and his doctors and his handlers and his superiors, all of them had treated him like spun glass, ready to shatter under the lightest of pressure.

All but Jack.

Jack had bundled him home as soon as the hospital had allowed and ordered Thai food like any other Thursday evening. Sure, he'd made sure Brock took his meds and wouldn't let him drink while he was on them but he joked and he teased and he griped and it was normal. When Brock flinched at loud sounds or bright lights, Jack wouldn’t say anything. 

Hell, he'd been the one to drag Brock to therapy, finding him a shrink that didn't treat him like he was broken either. She challenged him to get better, to take control back for himself. And Jack had driven him to every session. Waited outside and drove him home. Every. Single. Fucking. Session. And the fucker had been the goddamn reason he had needed therapy in the first place.

It still didn't mean he was broken.

He wasn’t broken.

"Of course not," Matt said calmly. Brock started, not realizing he had said anything out loud. Matt sighed, taking off his glasses to clean them on the inside of his shirt. "Look, I said it before and I'll say it again. You don't need to talk to me, but I think you should talk with someone. You said you had a therapist back in Washington?"

"Dr. Lynn," Brock said after a moments hesitation. "Would you like me to get in contact with her?" Matt asked.

"I'm fine," Brock said stiffly, unsure if he was trying to convince Matt or himself. "I know," Matt said calmly. "Never said you weren't." Brock fidgeted under the insightful and infuriatingly gentle gaze of the man across from him. Matt's eyes always had this way of seeming like they were seeing just under the surface, past all the carefully constructed walls and guards.

"Fine," Brock huffed, tossing his hands into the air. "Fine, contact her. Whatever. We done?” There was a pause as Matt just looked at him. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, we're done."

 

 

  
"How was the session?" James asked, not looking up from where he was curled up on the couch, book in hand. The younger man had basically moved in since returning to the Tower. He hadn't spent much time on the floor he shared with Rogers', if any at all.

Brock hated it.

James was everywhere. He in the living room while Brock was upstairs, he was cooking when Brock came back from the gym. He was stretching in the living room, in the shower. He was fucking everywhere and Brock hated it because it was perfect.

It was perfect and domestic and normal and all the things that made Brock jumpy. James was always there and what made it worse is it didn't feel intrusive. It felt... normal. Right. Welcome. Inviting. Those things didn't last, at least not for Brock. They couldn’t last. He didn't deserve them to.

"Did you know we used to fuck?" Brock said harshly, covering the uncomfortable feelings that bubbled in his chest. He set his teeth, boldly across the room at James. As soon as he said it, he regretted it. It was petty and stupid and he was just trying to get a rise out of the other man.

James just raised his eyebrows.

Brock waited but James didn't say anything. Just looked at him with something very understanding in his eyes that Brock didn't quite understand. "Well?" Brock snapped, finally fed up with the silent tension. “You're not gonna say anything?"

James sighed, putting his book down. "What do you want me to say?" he asked calmly. Brock didn't have an answer for that. He just wanted a fight. He had all these fucking feelings bubbling just under the surface, threatening to strangle him. The only way he knew how to deal was to fight; to bleed it out through aggression until his knuckles were bruised, his muscles were burning, and he was too tired to feel anything.

"I don't know," Brock growled under his breath and he stalked into the bathroom. He stepped into the shower and c ranked it as cold as it would go. He hissed as the icy water stung his skin. Within minutes he was chilled and shivering. He planted his hands on the cold tile wall and leaned forward, letting his head hang.

He breathed, concentrating on controlling his muscles against the freezing cold that made them clench and tremble. It was as thoroughly numbing as taking gloves to a heavy bag and it also dulled the ache in his shoulder where he had pulled a muscle the day before.

He heard but decided to ignore the soft click of the bathroom door. Shadows danced on the other side of the frosted glass and Brock closed his eyes. Maybe if he ignored him, the man would just leave. He registered the soft swish of fabric but couldn't bring himself to react to it. Part of himself wanted the company, the other half wanted to push it away.

The shower door clicked open.

Brock barely felt the light brush of skin on skin as an arm reached past him to adjust the shower. Slowly, so slowly, the water deluging down his back warmed. He hissed a breath. Steam began to cloud around them, reacting to the drastic shift in temperature.

Brock flinched as he felt lips brush across his shoulder blade, heat radiating along his back from the other man's body. He swallowed thickly, accusations and questions lodging in his throat. He wanted to scream. To kick and hit and hurt. He wanted to know how James was handling all this so well. How he had completely accepted this bond while Brock was the one feeling lost. How a man raised in the 30s could completely and so easily accept a bond between to men. How—

"I don't know what I'm doing," he heard whispered behind him. Brock closed his eyes, taking a long slow breath. “I’m scared too,” the voice murmured, closer this time, right behind his ear.

Brock sighed, feeling the last bit of resistance drain from his body. He should push James away. He should leave and not look back. But he wasn’t strong enough, selfless enough. He damn near ached for the comfort the other man brought and right now he was weak enough to surrender to it.

He let himself rock backwards, feeling his back connecting with the other man's chest. A strong arm wrapped around his torso, warm hand splaying flat across his chest. He leaned his head back against James’ shoulder, forcing his muscles to relax. Lips mouthed along his neck to the joint of his shoulder, teeth rasping over the scar that wrapped down his chest. He’d gotten that the day he’d failed to launch the helicarriers. That blonde agent had had a wicked talent with a knife.

A shiver whisked down his spine and he blushed as a soft chuckle growled in his ear. He reached back, tangling a hand in James’ shaggy hair and tugged. The low moan that rumbled deep in James’ throat was downright sinful and did strange things to Brock’s heartbeat.

That was all Brock could handle and he spun, catching James wrists in his as he crowded the younger man back against the tile wall. He felt James chest heave against his own, pupils blown as they stared at Brock.

It was in these moments Brock could let the world wash away. In these moments there was no HYDRA, no SHIELD, no assets or soldiers or missions, no guilt or hurt or hate. There was nothing but sense and feeling. The guilt would set in later, much later, but for now Brock pushed aside everything that wasn’t associated or centred on the man in front of him.

He tightened his grip on James’ wrists, not missing the way the man’s lips pulled into a breathless little smirk. They both knew James could easily break Brock’s grip and the fact that he didn’t made Brock’s blood boil.

Brock crowded closer, breathing in the scent of him as the water beat down on his back. He slipped his thigh between James’ leg, grinding up. His grin was all teeth as James’ breath hitched in his throat, pupils so wide there was almost no blue left to be seen.

He pulled another low growling groan from the man as he latched onto James’ bottom lip with his teeth. Between one breath and the next, James had yanked himself free and Brock found himself with his back pressed up against the tile.

Hands slipped under his thighs and James’ arms corded as he lifted Brock up, crowding close. “ _Jesus_ ,” was all Brock managed to gasp before James’ lips were on his, demanding and insistent. Brock’s hands scrabbled for purchase on James’ shoulders, arms, the wall. Anything.

The breath crashed from his lungs as James crowded close, using his own bodyweight to keep Brock in place. The man’s hands wrapped around Brock’s wrists and pinned them on either side of his head.

The shower water slowly turned cold as the hot water ran out but Brock barely noticed. Needless to say he was a little bit distracted.

 

 

 

 

  
It was late, or early depending on how you looked at it, and Brock was lying awake. As usual. He listened to James’ gentle breathing, slow and steady and calm. He pulled back the sheets and moved to slip away, probably down to the gym or maybe the roof. He wasn’t sure. All he was sure about was that he couldn't just lie there in the dark anymore.

“Don’t.” The voice made him freeze just as his feet hit the cold wood. “Just stay,” James murmured. Brock didn't respond, but he didn’t leave either. Silence seemed to echo across the loft. Brock felt frozen, unable to leave but unable to get back into bed. It seemed like a long time before the other man broke the silence.

“Jonathan Becks.”

“What?” Brock said, twisting around as he was pulled from his stupor by the a confusing declaration. James was sitting up, leaning back against the headboard. “First boy I ever kissed,” James explained, elbow resting casually on his knee as he stared at the bedspread. “I was thirteen, out behind the pharmacy. We got caught. It was dark so no one knew who we were but it didn’t matter. Damage done.”

Brock watched the other man’s shoulders ripple in a graceful shrug. “After we stopped running, he punched me across the face,” James continued with a bitter chuckle. “Said I tricked him. That he was no faggot and if I ever tried to touch him again he’d teach me a lesson.” James’ lips twisted into a nasty smirk.

“Ricky Walters,” Brock said softly, surprising himself. He hadn’t thought about that day in ages. “Got caught by my old man. Bruises lasted weeks,” he chuckled humourlessly.

“He ever come around?” James asked, voice soft but the words cut deep. “Naw,” Brock said, staring out the window at the twinkling city. “He wrapped his car around a tree a year later.”

“I’m sorry,” he heard murmured behind him and snorted rudely. “Don’t be,” Brock muttered. “I’m not.” He stretched, wincing as his sore shoulder pulled and his neck cracked. “Here,” James said and Brock felt the bed shift. A moment later and he felt strong fingers dig into his sore shoulder. He hissed as James worked out the muscles around his shoulder joint.

“Just breath,” James murmured in his ear. Brock exhaled slowly as James dug into his rotator cuff. “What are you doing?” he muttered, fidgeting under James’ touch. James’ hand stilled, thumb lightly tracing the cord of muscle that ran up the side of Brock’s neck. He wasn’t talking about the massage and they both knew it.

“What do you think?” James asked softly. Brock swallowed. They were straying into dangerous territory and Brock wasn’t sure he was ready for that conversation, if he’d ever be ready. He could have kicked himself for bringing it up. He pulled away from the touch, getting to his feet. He only made it a few steps before a soft voice made him stop once again.

“When are you going to stop?” Brock glanced back to see James sitting crosslegged near the end of the bed, watching him with sad eyes. “Stop what?” Brock huffed, eyes narrowing.

“Running,” James said softly.

It hit like a punch to the gut, low and hard and cracking the air from his lungs. “I’m not—,” Brock bit off the lies that flew easily from his tongue, swallowing stiffly. Something in James’ eye made him stop.

He felt a pressure building in his chest. He’d felt it before, in the motel, at the farm, on the base. A small nagging feeling told him he’d felt it many times before. It was that invisible string connecting him to the man sitting in front of him.

James was right. He was running. He’d always kept himself at arms length from everyone and everything. It was like there was a wall, thick and spiky, and it kept the world out. That way he couldn’t get hurt. Nobody could use his feelings and weaknesses against him if no one knew them. Yet somehow this kid had managed to slip past, taking up residence in his heart.

“It’s all I know,” Brock confessed.

James moved slowly and it took everything Brock had to keep his feet planted and not run as the younger man closed the distance. They were almost nose to nose and try as he might, Brock wasn't able to tear his gaze away from those bright blue orbs.

“Not anymore,” James murmured. Fingertips brushed against his. The waves of emotions that crashed over him made him dizzy. “I don’t deserve it,” Brock whispered, hating how weak his voice sounded. “Bullshit,” James growled, icy eyes seeming to stare right through to Brock’s core. Brock swallowed, wanting this so much but not able to articulate it.

“I’m gonna fuck it up,” he breathed, feeling heat prickle at the corner of his eyes. James’ eyes softened even further, something Brock wouldn't have thought possible, and he reached up to gently cup Brock’s face in his palms. “And you think I won’t?” he chuckled softly.

With those words, the last shreds of Brock’s defences crumbled.

James’ breath hitched. His pupils blew wide and Brock knew he was now experiencing the same raw rush of emotions that Brock was. It wasn’t the first time he’d allowed himself to be open to the bond that existed between him and the younger man but it was the first time he didn’t try to control or sensor it.

This time he opened to it completely, allowing everything he was feeling to spill out across that invisible tie. He pushed every single ugly emotion into the open, bombarding James with every doubt he had, all the guilt and self hatred and confusion and wanting and fear that had been festering inside him for so long.

All he felt in return was warmth and it damn near broke him in two.

He felt his knees buckle and strong hands suddenly grasped his elbows, holding him up. Dark eyes met bright blue. “There you are,” James whispered as he slide his hands up Brock’s arms and up to cradle his jaw gently. Thumbs brushed across his cheekbones and then there were lips on his, soft and tender.

Brock was the one to deepen the kiss, reaching a hand to tangle in James’ long locks. Arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him close.

They’d had sex before; at the farmhouse, here in the tower, mere hours ago in the shower, in the broken fragments of memory slowly resurfacing. This was different. It was pure and raw and emotionally open. Everything one felt reverberated across the bond to the other. Pain and pleasure and warmth and safety and everything Brock had longed for but never allowed himself to have.

He had never felt so vulnerable in his life, nor had he ever felt so safe.

 

 

 

  
It was a bad day. It was almost as if they both couldn't have a good day at the same time. One of them had to always be falling apart. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that they hadn’t yet both had a bad day at the same time, but Brock ad a feeling it was just a matter of time.

Nightmares had plagued James’ sleep, keeping both of them awake. This time it was James who had disappeared down to the gym and had come back shaky and sweaty. He disappeared again into the bathroom and Brock heard the shower running for a good hour and a half.

James snapped four elastics in half attempting to pull his hair out of his face. On the last one, he ripped it out of his hair with a snarl, more than a few hairs coming out with it. “You want a haircut?” Brock asked innocently. “No,” James growled before slamming his fist into the wall. Thankfully it was his right arm, but it still put a good dent in the plaster.

“Here,” Brock said patiently, gently gathering the man’s unruly hair back into a neat tail. “There you go, kid,” he said. He laid a gentle hand on the left shoulder, right over the joint where metal met flesh. That was a bad idea.

A breath later and Brock was slammed back against the kitchen counter, the edge digging painfully into his lower back. James had a hand fisted in the front of his shirt, eyes hard and cold as he leaned in close. There was an edge to his gaze, like someone else was lurking just behind the surface. “Don’t fucking call me kid,” he snarled.

“Okay,” Brock breathed, raising his arms to the side in surrender.

James blinked and panic filled flooded into his eyes. “Easy,” Brock started, reaching out to his arm as James began to flee. Brock’s hand barely brushed metal when James yanked himself sharply away. “Don’t,” he gasped, hands beginning to shake. “Don’t touch it.”

Brock stayed very still, just watching as James struggled to regain control. He didn't try to help as James slowly slide down to the floor, flesh hand covering half his face as he breathed. Brock let himself fold to the ground in front of the other man.

“Aren’t we a pair?” James eventually muttered, breath finally smoothing out and steadying. “Yeah,” Brock chuckled. “A matched set of issues.” He reached a hand, wrapping it gently around the metal wrist of the arm that hung loose across James’ knees. James tensed at the touch immediately. “I said don’t touch it,” he said, voice flat and filled with iron but Brock didn’t let go.

“It doesn’t scare me,” Brock said calmly. The silent _and neither do you_  echoed across the space between them.

Blue eyes flicked to meet his, James’ other hand sliding down to cup the lower half of his face. “It should,” he said in that same flat voice that Brock hated so much. Brock didn’t bother to reply. He just gently brushed his thumb across the metallic wrist, feeling the ridges of the plates under his touch.

“It scares me,” James whispered, dropping his eyes again, subtext laced heavily through his words.

Brock opened his mouth but Jarvis interrupted. “Apologies sirs,” the AI said hesitantly. “However, Captain Rogers is requesting Sergeant Barnes’ presence in the conference room. Apparently they’ve found something that he should see.”

“Don’t call me Sergeant, J,” James said wearily, getting to his feet.

“Apologies sir,” Jarvis said as Brock got to his feet, protests on his lips. Rogers could damn well deal with this himself. James was in no condition to go into the field. Any further protests were silenced by the look James levied at him when he opened his mouth. Brock snapped his jaw shut with a snap as the younger man stalked to the elevators.

“Well?” Brock’s eyes snapped up, seeing James waiting just inside the doors. “You coming?” he said with a small smirk, but there was an sharpness in his eyes, a desperate edge. Brock pulled an easy smirk of his own as he crossed the distance into the elevator.

 

 

 

Steve was less than impressed however he didn't argue but James told him Brock was coming with them. James knew Steve a lot of unresolved issues in regards to the former HYDRA agent. He could tell by the way the man’s jaw muscles twitched and the stiff tension through his shoulders. James said nothing as the jet landed on the outskirts of an abandoned complex deep in the middle of the Black Forest. Steve and Brock would figure it out, or so he hoped.

They cleared the complex swiftly, moving through the abandoned corridors easily. Apparently this had been a secondary facility whose primary function was as a data backup. Huge banks of computers and rows upon rows of filing cabinets contained years worth of HYDRA scientific research.

James was bored. He lounged against the wall, hand resting lazily on his rifle while he watched Brock spin himself around in an office chair, eyes staring up at the ceiling. Natasha had her boots up on one of the tables, cleaning her nails with a knife no bigger than her pinkie. Steve was hovering, much to Stark’s annoyance.

For all everyone looked bored, James knew they were alert and would spring into action in less than a breath if anything was to occur. “How much longer is this going to take?” Clint’s voice cracked through their comms, sounding as bored as James felt.

“Twenty minutes, give or take,” Stark said without glancing up from the screens. That’s when the power went out. “Perhaps longer,” Natasha said drolly.

“I got it,” James said, adjusting his rifle more comfortably against his shoulder as he pushed off from the wall. Brock got to his feet without a word, falling in a few paces behind James. James waved off Steve’s worried glance. “Back within ten.”

“Stay on comms,” Steve said after a moment hesitation. James gave a curt nod before slipping out into the hallway, Brock a shadow on his heels.

“You know where you’re going?” Brock asked as James strode purposefully through the halls. “Yep,” James said shortly, taking a left down a shadowy corridor. “You been here before?” Brock continued, scanning down the hallways that extended from the one they were in. “Once,” James said softly, passing familiar doors and trying to block the screams that echoed across his memory. “A long time ago.”

Brock didn’t comment further as James found the door he was looking for and slipping inside. Massive breaker panels lined the walls; the heart of the complex’s electrical systems. “Okay,” James muttered, unclipping his rifle and setting it aside before getting to work. “Of course it wouldn't be simple,” Brock drawled as James mulled over the various switches and levers. “Damnit,” James muttered. “Jarvis?”

“Yes, of course sir,” the AI said primly. “If you’ll move to the fourth panel from the door on the right wall, I’ll instruct you from there.”

A slamming sound echoed through the hallway, prompting James to whirl, hand on his sidearm while Brock brought his rifle up to bare. “Cap?” Brock snapped into the comms. “You got anyone wandering around down here?”

“Negative,” came the immediate reply. “Do you need backup?”

“Standby,” Brock said, retrieving James’ rifle from where he had leaned it against the wall. “Keep working,” he said to James, handing him the rifle. “Stay sharp.”

“Stay safe,” James said with a nod. Brock smirked and winked, to which James only rolled his eyes. The dark haired man slipped through the door and out into the hallway. James turned back to work, moving from panel to panel at Jarvis’ direction.

“Sir, I am detecting an unidentified heat signature in the compound,” Jarvis’ voice snapped through the comms. “Where?” Steve’s voice crackled in James’ ear as he threw the last lever and the main lights bloomed to life again. The hairs on the back of James’ neck stood up and he whirled, rifle neatly tucked against his shoulder just as a dark shadow dropped from a heating vent in the ceiling. His finger tightened on the trigger just as the figure spoke.

Three words.

Those three fucking words, guttural sounding and scraping at his ears. They clawed at the inside of James’ head, closing his throat and choking him. There was an overwhelming roaring sound and James’ vision went dark.

He didn’t even remember hitting the floor.

 

 

 

“Sir, I am detecting an unidentified heat signature in the compound.”

Brock frowned, slowing his steps as he rounded the last corner. “Where?” Roger’s voice snapped sharply. There was a pause.

“The breaker room.”

Jarvis hadn’t even finished speaking before Brock was sprinting back down the way he came. He had felt a thrum of adrenaline over the bond before it immediately went dark. He pushed down the panic that crackled in his chest and thrust the door open with a vicious shoulder.

“Hands in the fucking air!” he snapped at the man who was hunched over James’ prone body, fingers at his throat like he was taking a pulse. The man raised his hands to the side as he slowly stood. “Easy,” a familiar voice rumbled as the man turned.

Brock’s mouth went dry. Bright green eyes, slicked back hair, broad shoulders; all so painfully familiar. Colourful bruises scattered up the side of his face and across his jaw, looking painful and fresh and making him look all the more real and _alive_. 

Jack Rollins _smirked_.

“About time. Where the fuck have you been?” Jack drawled, dropping his hands and taking a stiff step forward, like he had broken or bruised ribs. “Don’t fucking move,” Brock snapped, rifle unwavering from where it was trained on the man’s heart. Jack's brow furrowed in confusion. “The fuck you playing at?” he snapped. “I said don’t move,” Brock whispered harshly. “Get on your fucking knees.”

“Brock—,” Jack began but Brock swiftly interrupted him. “Knees, now!” he roared, taking a step forward as rage and pain made his chest tighten. “Okay, okay,” Jack snapped. “Just take it easy.”

Brock was a professional. He wasn't about to get compromised by the fact that his closest friend who had betrayed him and who he'd thought dead for months was now standing in front of him. He forced down the spiky tangle of emotions that bubbled close under the surface and breathed. Regardless of the internal turmoil he was wrestling with, he didn’t miss the wince that flickered across Jack’s face as he gingerly lowered himself to his knees. Hell, he'd known the man for years. He had bled with him, nearly died beside him, had saved his life just as often as Jack had saved his. He knew when Jack was hiding injuries. 

Brock freed the pair of cuffs from his vest and tossed them across the room. They landed with a clink on the ground by Jack's feet. “Cuff yourself,” he said stiffly. He almost wavered, he almost forgot everything he had learned about the man before him, as he watched the surprise and confusion that flashed in Jack’s eyes. “Now,” Brock snapped as Jack opened his mouth, interrupted the man before he could say anything.

Jack’s jaw snapped shut with a click, something shuttering over his eyes but not before Brock saw the slight flicker of panic that flashed through green irises before it was hidden behind smouldering anger. It was something that Brock pushed aside to mull over later. Right now he was more concerned about getting Jack under control and James to safety.

“In front,” he snapped as Jack moved to cuff his hands behind in back. The larger man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly, bringing his hands in front of him again. With a metallic snick, Jack cuffed his hands together.

“Tighter,” Brock said stiffly. Jack’s breath hissed out sharply but he did as he was told. “You gonna tell me what the fuck this is about?” Jack spat quietly as Brock crossed the distance, headed for James. “Shut up,” Brock snapped. “Are you fucking—,” Jack snarled, lunging up. Brock cut him off mid sentence by bringing the butt of his rifle down on the back of Jack’s skull with a sickening crack.

Jack crumpled just as Rogers and the others bust into the room behind him. “Get him out of here,” Brock growled, masking the emotional rollercoaster he was currently on. Satisfied that the others could handle the unconscious man, Brock swiftly cross the room and dropped down beside James.

Brock gently rolled James onto his back, relief flooding through him as he felt the man’s pulse thrum steadily under his fingers. “He’s fine,” he said quickly as Rogers reentered, dropping down beside them with barely veiled panic in his eyes. “He'll wake up soon.”

“What happened?” Rogers asked hoarsely, worried eyes snapping between Brock and the unconscious James. “Trigger phrase,” Brock said bitterly. “Trigger phrase?” Rogers said sharply. “Yeah,” Brock sighed tiredly, scrubbing a hand over his face and keeping a careful eye on James’ breathing. “Words and phrases that were integrated into his conditioning. This one acts basically like a shut down command.”

"And you know it?" Rogers said, voice dangerously quiet. "The words?"

"All his handlers knew it," Brock said in way of explanation, already knowing there this was going and not in any sort of space to deal with that conversation. “And you’re telling us this now?” Rogers growled. Brock was saved from having to answer as James’ breath stuttered. “Back up,” he snapped, pulling Rogers back just as James surged to his feet, knife in hand. Brock hadn’t even seen him palm it.

“ _Cтоять солдат_ ,” Brock said sharply. James relaxed slowly, warily lowering the knife. His eyes glanced over Rogers before locking onto Brock. “ _Rотовы соблюдать_ ,” James said in that toneless voice that Brock hated so much.

Brock could literally feel the tension radiating off Rogers and he stifled a sigh. The man was wound tighter than a drum. “On me,” Brock said crisply. James blinked and let Brock lead him out of the breaker room.

It wasn’t until midway through the flight home that James finally came out of the forced stupor. He came back to himself with a blink and a start. “Welcome back,” Brock murmured. James’ eyes snapped to his and held. “You good?” Brock asked gently, feeling Rogers eyes on them from the cockpit.

“Yeah,” James replied hoarsely. “Yeah, I’m good.” He clapped a hand briefly on Brock’s knee before slipping out to the bathroom. Brock’s eyes slid to where Jack was slumped on the floor near the back, still unconscious.

He swallowed down the bubbling emotions, locking them away deep within himself. Later. He would deal with them later. Right now, he had to focus on the task at hand; getting answers to the questions that had been clawing his heart raw for weeks.

 

 

 

Brock stood on the other side of the glass, arms crossed stiffly over his chest as he watched Jack slowly regain consciousness. Jack stirred with a throaty groan, pulling himself up into a sitting position against the back wall. He winced, blinking owlishly.

The cell was barren and empty, save for a toilet and sink combo that folded out of the wall. There wasn’t even a cot and Brock couldn't find it in himself to feel sorry. He watched silently as Jack’s eyes slide to him, struggling to focus.

“Brock?” Jack croaked. “Ow, the fuck?” he winced, bringing a hand to the growing lump on his head where Brock had hit him. He struggled to his knees, eyes finally focusing on his surroundings. They snapped up to Brock, anger and panic warring for dominance.

“The fuck are you playing at?” he asked. Brock didn’t bother answering. He just stared down at the man before him, the man he would have considered his closest friend. His only friend, if he was being truly honest with himself.

“Why?” he asked quietly.

“Why what?” Jack said with growing irritation, any trace of panic now deeply buried. His eyes finally really focused on Brock and his eyebrows raised an inch. He struggled to his feet, face neutral but masking discomfort. He crossed the small cell until he was almost face to face with Brock, the glass of the cell the only thing separating them. 

“You look like shit,” Jack said quietly. “What happened after the Triskellion?”

“Tell me about HYDRA’s recruitment program,” Brock demanded, jaw muscles twitching as he ground his teeth together. Jack blinked. “What?” he said incredulously. “Nebraska,” Brock said. Jack frowned, looked puzzled. “Brock, what is this about?”

“Just answer the question,” Brock said stiffly. Jack flicked his teeth over his bottom lip, something he did when he was thinking. Another flash of agony flickered through Brock's chest but he shoved it away angrily, watching as Jack's eyes flicked to the security camera mounted in the corner and then back to him. He could almost see the gears turning behind those green eyes. Brock said nothing, waiting quietly for Jack to speak.

“The Nebraska complex was the main base of operations for local recruitment,” Jack finally said slowly. “Specifically those HYDRA had their eye on for sensitive missions. Sleeper agents, undercover operatives, the like."

“And they, what, torture them?” Brock asked calmly, feeling tension building up the back of his neck and jaw as he clenched his teeth tight. Jack’s eyebrows flew up into his hair. “We found the tapes,” he continued.

“We?” Jack said shrewdly. Brock mentally kicked himself. Most had counted Jack as the lesser intelligent of the two of them, more brawn than brains because he was so quiet and stoic. In reality, Jack was as sharp as a tack. He missed very little. Jack sighed when Brock said nothing. “Yeah,” he said, eyes calculating. “If they don’t break before the allotted time period, their rescue is staged and they’re approached later with the full sales pitch. Brock, you know all this.” 

Brock shrugged, feigning indifference. “Must have forgotten,” he said flatly. “Yeah,” Jack said slowly, suspicion leaking into his words. “Must have."

"Just like I forgot this," Brock said and with a flick of his fingers, he pulled up an image on the glass between them. It was a still pulled from the security footage from the base. The image was black and white and a little grainy but you could clearly see who it was.

Jack stared silently down at the image. “It wasn’t terrorists in Sudan,” Brock said in a soft tone, hanging onto his self control by mere threads. “It wasn’t radicals or pirates or fucking militants." He swallowed stiffly, forcing himself to continue.

"It was you.”

Something Brock couldn't begin to understand swirled deep in the taller man’s eyes. Jack’s breath came out harsh, jaw muscles jumping as he clenched his teeth. Brock huffed a nasty chuckle, swiping the image away with a flick of his fingers.

“You don’t even try to deny it,” he said bitterly.

“Let me explain,” Jack said quietly, seemingly unable to meet Brock’s eyes. “Fuck your explanations,” Brock snarled. “I don't want them.” Green eyes snapped to his, that same unidentifiable something flickering deep behind the green irises. “You have half the story, Brock,” Jack pleaded. “You gotta listen to me.”

“How long ago was Sudan?” Brock interrupted, rocking up on the balls of his feet. “Fifteen years? It was a nice act you kept up all this time. Real convincing. Watching my back like you actually gave a shit. Pretending to care must have been hard.” 

“Brock-,” Jack began but Brock was on a roll now and he continued right over him. “Did you watch? Did you watch while they stripped me naked and hung me from the ceiling? While they waterboarded me? While they ripped out my fingernails?”

“Stop it,” Jack growled, breath coming out faster now, like a spooked horse. “You like to watch?” Brock continued ruthlessly. “Didn’t want to get your hands dirty, though. No, you're above that. No blood stains on Jack Rollins’ boots.”

“I was under orders,” Jack tried but Brock wasn’t having any of it. He wasn’t going to accept any bullshit excuses Jack was going to throw his way to try and excuse what he had done, and I was under orders was the worst excuse of them all. “I don't want to hear it,” Brock said softly, taking a half step forward to almost bring his nose to the glass. “I was in the hospital for two months. Rehab for four.”

“And you didn't break,” Jack interrupted passionately. “I knew you'd survive,” he added softly. “I had night terrors for almost a year!” Brock snapped, starting to unravel at the edges. Heat suddenly flashed across Jack’s eyes, so blindingly hot with pain and rage that it punched the air from Brock’s lungs.

“So did I,” Jack snarled.

Brock couldn't help but to flinch back. Jack softened immediately, looking away. His throat bobbed as he swallowed and Brock could see the small tremors that raced through Jack’s muscles. It was painfully familiar.

“Cambodia,” Jack said softly but he didn’t need to.

Brock remembered only too well the state Jack had been in when Brock and his fellow Marine's had finally found him; bruised and bloody, wounds septic and so delirious with fever he didn’t recognize them. Brock had been there through the whole ordeal; the hospital stay, the rehab, the night terrors. He had known Jack had been recruited to HYDRA before him but even after he had found out about the _recruitment process_ , he hadn't ever entertained the idea that Jack might have been put through the same thing.

Brock crossed his arms again to hide the trembling in his hands because he didn't seem to be able to stop it. “You think that justifies what you did?” he said bitterly. Because it didn’t. It couldn’t. 

“I was trying to protect you.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Brock growled. Jack huffed, nostrils flaring. “I had no choice,” he said stiffly. “Bullshit,” Brock snapped. “It was that or put a bullet through your fucking head. What would you have had me do?” Jack growled, tension radiating from him in waves.

Brock clenched his teeth, breath hissing out sharply as he fought to control his temper. He was almost at his limit but there was one more question he had to ask. One more thing he needed to know. “Did you know?” he asked softly, almost gently. Jack’s eyes snapped to his at the sudden change of tone, green irises apprehensive. “About the asset. About the bond,” Brock whispered. “Did you know?” 

The jumping muscles along Jack’s jaw line and the sudden shuttered look over his eyes told Brock everything he needed to know. “You did,” he hissed. “You fucking did, you son of a bitch.”

“Brock,” Jack said warningly but Brock interrupted. “Where you the one who sold us out?” Brock snapped sharply, starting to put more of the pieces of his fragmented memory together. “Found out about us and went running to Pierce like a good little dog?”

“No,” Jack groaned, leaning against the glass. “No, just let me explain. You owe me that at least.”

“I owe you shit,” Brock growled. Even as angry as he was, he couldn't ignore the way Jack was now leaning heavily against the glass, pain and exhaustion flickering deep in his eyes. “Brock, you don’t remember everything,” Jack pleaded, eyes open and unguarded for the first time that day. “Just let me explain.”

Brock swallowed, taking a shaky breath. “You know, there really aren't a lot of people that I actually trust,” he said softly, struggling to keep his voice even.

“But I trusted you.”

He turned away, missing the look of pain that flashed through Jack’s eyes at his words. “Brock,” Jack called after him. “Don’t fucking walk away from me!” A sharp slam echoed after Brock, most likely Jack slamming his hand against the glass.

“Brock!”

Brock kept his gate smooth and steady, refusing to falter until he was out the door and around the corner out of sight. Then his knees buckled and his back hit the wall hard. He slide slowly down to the ground, hands trembling and mind numb.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there for, staring blankly at the wall across from him. It could have been five minutes or five hours before soft footsteps echoed down the hallway and a shadow crossed Brock’s eyes.

Lanky legs folded themselves gracefully down to the ground across from him. Large hands delicately removed the glasses perched on the man’s nose, cleaning them deftly on the inside of his sweater.

Brock sucked in a shaky gasp, still staring blankly at the wall. “Fuck,” he breathed. “What do you need?” Bruce said gently, eyes soft and full of understanding. Brock looked up, relieved to see no pity reflected in the man’s eyes. That was another thing Brock liked about the man.

“I don’t know,” he muttered.

He tuned out Bruce’s soft muttering and Jarvis’ equally quiet reply. A beat later and a hand appeared in front of him. He grasped it and allowed the scientist to pull him to his feet. He let the man guide him down the hallways and into the elevator. It took Brock a moment to realize that Bruce hadn’t entered the elevator with him.

He locked his knees, eyes trained on the ground as the elevator hummed to life. A few moments later and the doors opened, revealing a pair of socked feet attached to grey sweatpants. Brock swallowed as strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and drew him out of the elevator.

Those same strong arms guided him up to the loft, helped him out of his boots and jeans and into a pair of sweats. Gentle hands got him situated under the covers with a hot mug of tea before the bed dipped beside him and a soft voice murmured in his ear, reading from a book of Asgardian poetry.

It wasn’t until those gentle hands took the mug of tea from his hands that Brock realized tears were running down his cheeks. Those strong arms wrapped around him again, drawing him down against a muscular chest. He fisted a hand in the soft shirt material as fingers gently carded through his hair.

Once again, Brock couldn’t keep track of time. He wasn’t sure how long they lay there but when he opened his eyes again it was dark outside. He glanced up, he found James reading, book in hand as the other trailed fingertips down Brock’s side. Brock yawned, jaw cracking as he rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up.

When he turned back, James was watching him with gentle eyes, having set the book aside. “I don’t want to talk about it,” Brock said roughly.

“Okay,” James said simply.

Brock lay back down with a sigh. He closed his eyes as he felt James get up from the bed. He vaguely registered James bustling around the loft, finally returning to bed. Darkness bloomed under Brock’s eyelids as James shut off the light and he felt the bed dip as James crawled back into bed.

Brock swallowed the wave of guilt that rose in his throat. After what had happened on the base, it should have been him supporting James, not the other way around. “It’s a two way street,” James said quietly somewhere to Brock’s left. Brock huffed, having not been aware of how much he had been projecting so much across the bond.

He rolled over, fingers searching until they brushed against James’ back. When the touch wasn’t rejected, he closed the distance between them. He wrapped an arm around James’ waist, sliding his leg between James’. Fingers tangled themselves through his, a gentle hum of contentment vibrating deep in James’ chest.

 

 

  
_Everything was itchy and painful in turns._

_Lights were too bright._

_He was too hot._

_No, too cold._

_His fingers burned and there was something irritating in his nose._ _He tried to bat it away but then gentle hands were on his and they hurt too._

_“Easy, easy,” a deep voice murmured in his ears and a familiar face swam before his eyes._

_Soft green eyes and gentle words soothed his ears._ _“Jackie?” he rasped, barely recognizing his own voice._

_“I gotcha,” Jack murmured soothingly._

_“You’re safe. You’re okay. I gotcha.”_

 

 

_The world fell out from under him and he landed on cold cement._

_Pain that had been dull and throbbing now stabbed sharp and hot._

_He couldn't breath._

_Electricity crackled and he arched off the ground with a silence scream, limbs twisting and twitching._

_Then, hands._

_Hands everywhere._

_Grabbing and dragging and pulling._

_He felt the rough ground scrape under his legs as he is dragged down endless hallways before being dumped unceremoniously onto….a bed?_

_Hands, gentle hands, wiped blood from his face._

_Soft green eyes and gentle words soothed his ears._

 

 

 

  
Brock’s eyes snapped open with a gasp. His clothes were soaked through with sweat and his muscles trembled like he had been on a run. Dove grey light was filtering through the windows, gently illuminating the loft.

A gentle touch at his elbow made him jump. He glanced down at James, whose eyes were over-bright with unshed tears. Confusion flashed through Brock until he realized what must have happened.

Dream sharing.

“Sorry,” he gasped. “Don’t be,” James whispered, thumb lightly tracing one of the scars that wrapped around Brock’s forearm. Brock pulled away from the touch, slipping out of bed and stripping off his sweat soaked clothes. He yanked a fresh pair of pants up over his hips, flexing his hands to try and stop them from trembling.

He took a step towards the stairs and then stopped. He had moved out of habit, usually having the itch to go hit something, or run until his lungs burned and his legs buckled. He didn’t have that urge anymore.

Instead, he slipped back into bed and fell asleep with his arms wrapped around his soul bond.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> стоять солдат - Stand down, Soldier
> 
> готовы соблюдать - Ready to comply
> 
>  
> 
> Happy New Year everyone!!!


	14. Just One More Breath

_Breathe._

_Just breathe._

Controlling your breath was the trick. Breath was everything. Life itself. The first thing a good soldier learns is how to breathe; to steady yourself, to ground yourself, to stop your muscles from shaking with cold or fear. Breath meant the different between control and chaos, calm and panic, life and death. Your breath hitches and your finger is that split second too late, too early pulling the trigger. People die or don't, depending.

_Remember to breathe._

Unfortunately, it currently hurt to breathe. Still healing ribs protested even the shallowest of movements. His head hurt, a deep aching throb that had decided to settle at the base of his skull and across his temples. Heat and tension radiated from the side and he knew without looking that there was a nasty bump hidden under his hair.

_Breath in and out._

His back protested the hard floor but it was better than the last place he had dared to fall asleep. He focused into himself, willing his muscles to stop shivering as the cold seeped through his thin jacket and made his bones ache.

_In and out._

_Just keep breathing._

Like that movie with the forgetful fish he had been forced to sit through while babysitting his nieces that one time. Felt like a thousand years ago even though it was barely four. What they must think of him now; thought dead and buried under a few hundred tons of rubble and concrete, branded a traitor for all the world to hate.

He could deal with that. He could count on one hand the times he had been home in the last ten years. He could deal with their hate. The betrayal he had seen reflected in a pair of flint brown eyes however….he wasn't so sure he could deal with that.

_Just keep breathing._

_In and out._

_In._

_And._

Heavy footsteps clomped in the hallway.

 _Out_.

He kept his breathing steady even as his heart rate tripled and burly black-clad agents stepped into the cell, armed with stun batons and heavy metal cuffs.

 _Just keep breathing_.

He managed not to wince as the cold metal bit into his wrists, pressing against bruises still tender from the last time he was in cuffs. He grimaced but kept his curses silent as they shoved him into the hallway, barely allowing him the time to get his feet underneath him.  
In and out.

His questions fell on deaf ears. Question, really. Singular. He knew where he was going and even if he was wrong, it wasn't like it mattered. Wherever he would end up, he knew what to expect. He only had one question. He must have asked one too many times, as a stiff cuff to the side of his head and a gruff snapping command to shut up were his only answer.

 _Just breathe_.

Breathing helped the pain too. Funny thing, pain. It’s in the mind just as much as in the body. To calm the mind is to calm the body. Breathe into the pain, identify it, control it, and thus conquer it. His head hurt, vision swimming to the point that his knees felt weak. Probably a concussion. Other older injuries plagued his steps, dating back months. Proper medical care was difficult to find when on the run from the entire world, even as said world thought you dead.

 _Breath in and out_.

A last ditch attempt to have his question answered resulted in the blunt end of a stun baton being jammed up into his gut and a cruel hand tangling roughing in his hair to keep him upright. He grimaced and finally decided to keep his mouth shut. He had enough bruises.

The agents shoved him none too gently into a large black SUV. He mused at how they had changed as the vehicle roared to life. He had known these agents, had worked along side them, some for years. The one sitting next to him was called Peters. He had a wife who worked in accounting or did as the man wasn't wearing his wedding ring anymore. Peters had been nice, too nice in his opinion. The steel and ice that now shone from the man’s eyes seemed out of place, out of character. They were harder, crueler, less forgiving and he couldn't find it in his heart to blame them. He was in part responsible, after all.

He turned to stare out the dark tinted window, watching as buildings and trees whipped by and tried not to think about anything. He just focused on breathing.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

_In and out._

 

 

  
“Breathe.”

The voice was calm and grounding. James heard it through a haze. He blinked as the darkness receded to the corners of his vision. His head felt foggy and inside out, like someone had reached in and rearranged everything without his knowledge. James swallowed and winced as the sandpaper dryness of his throat scratched painfully.

“You're okay, just breathe,” the voice said again. James focused on the face in front of him. Curly dark hair, eyes calm and patient, glasses perched on a long nose. James was freezing and couldn't help the shiver that raced through his body.

“Fuck,” he groaned, slowly sitting up.

Now that he was awake, his head had starting to pound and he had no one to blame but himself. James had been the one to insist that after what had happened on the mission, they needed to find a way to break the command words and phrases that had been programmed into his head.

Matt had suggested exposure therapy as a possible way to desensitize him; exposing him to the words again and again with the thinking that he will be eventually able to ignore them or break out of their influences. A great idea in theory, absolutely shit in reality, and they'd be at it for hours.

He blinked, glancing around the lab. Surprise stuck in his throat as his eyes glanced around the empty lab. “Where is everybody?” he slurred, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Steve was…upset,” Bruce said, delicately clearing his throat. “He just needed a minute.” James huffed, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh slipping out. He sat up in the reclining chair, trying to ignore the way his skin crawled at the familiar sensation. He felt the electrodes tug at his head and chest and sat back again with another sigh.

“And Brock?” he asked quietly.

“Brock passed out after the last time,” Bruce replied, sliding over on the rolling stool he was perched on to tap away at a nearby computer. “What?” James snapped, sitting bolt upright, ignoring as some of the leads snapped off. “Just a transference from you. He’s fine,” Bruce placated. “He needed a break too.”

“Where is he?” James said, ripping off the rest of the leads and getting to his feet. “I don't—,” Bruce tried but James was beyond paying much attention to the scientist. “Jarvis?” he asked as he yanked his hoody over his head. “Just outside, sir,” came the response.

Without another word, James strode across the lab, blinking spots from his eyes. He paused his a hand on the door as Clint’s hushed voice reached his ears. “He's being transferred to the Raft now.” Another voice, deeper- and rougher-sounding than the first followed in a clipped tone. “I don't wanna see him.”

“Apparently he hasn't stopped asking about-,” Clint tried but Brock interrupted the archer swiftly. “Drop it, Barton,” James heard the man growl quietly. “It's none of your business so _back off_.” Soft receding footsteps told him Clint had indeed backed off.

James pushed the door open to reveal a familiar silhouette, leaning heavily into the hand splayed against the wall. Exhaustion weighed heavily through the man’s muscles, making his shoulders slump. James knew that he was still having trouble sleeping. “Gimme a minute,” Brock said in a hoarse voice. “You got more than a minute. We’re done for today,” James replied.

Brock pulled himself up, planting his hands on his hips as he turned. What would be a casual stance in most everyone else held a lot of tension, like the man was keeping himself upright by sheer willpower alone. “Heard you passed out. You good?” James asked carefully. The shorter man huffed a laugh, a spark of mischief crackling across tired eyes. “Thought that was my line. I'm fine,” he added when James’ only response was a glare.

“What'd you wanna do?” James asked. “Hit something,” came the predictable reply. James didn't bother to try and hide his exasperated amusement as he rolled his eyes. “I think you need sleep,” he said dryly. “Yeah, after I hit something,” was the immediate reply. James could help but smirk.

He let Brock drag him down into gym because he knew this was how the man kept the nightmares at bay, pushing his body to the limits and beyond, chasing a dreamless sleep. “We haven't properly sparred since before all this shit happened,” Brock tossed back to James as he crossed the gym and dug out two sets of sparring gloves from a nearby locker. James startled, scrambling to catch the gloves as they were tossed across the room. It took everything in him not to drop them like hot bricks.

“No,” he said stiffly, the word sharp and bitting on his tongue. “Oh come on,” Brock goaded, wrapping the straps securely around his wrists. He rolled his shoulders to loosen the muscles as he climbed up into the ring. “You chicken?” James felt his hands clench involuntarily, the slight whirring grind of metal hissing in his ears. “Not happening,” he snapped, stalking over to the locker to return the gloves.

“We used to spar all the time, you know, before.”

Brock's words pulled him up short. He glanced over to find the older man lounging casually against the ropes, the cords bowing under his weight. A genuine, almost fond smile was tugging at his lips. “I was the only one who had the balls to do it. You broke three of my fingers the first time.” James couldn't help the flinch that flickered across his face. “But,” Brock continued, oblivious or uncaring of James’ obvious discomfort.

“I kept coming back.”

James swallowed, fiddling with the Velcro on the gloves. “Sometimes….,” he fumbled, trying to put the tangle of feelings into words. “Sometimes I feel like it has a mind of its own.” He didn't elaborate, leaving the unsaid hanging heavy in the air. He knew Brock would understand. He always did, somehow.

“Doesn't scare me,” Brock replied, one shoulder raising slightly in a casual shrug. “I'm not as breakable as you seem to think.” 

Slow steps brought James closer to the edge of the ring almost without his knowledge. He glanced up through his lashes to the other man, staring down at him. He searched those dark eyes intently. Only calm patience was reflected back. No fear, no anger, no competition. James said nothing, just ducked swiftly under the ropes and into the ring. Brock said nothing either, his lopsided smirk just slowly spreading.

They started easy, blows almost lazy as they allowed their bodies to warm up. It was Brock who started to up the anti, lashing out with a swift kick aimed at James’ temple. He dodged the blow easily, shooting Brock a scolding glare. The shorter man just grinned, bouncing loosely on the balls of his feet. “This all you got?” Brock challenged. James huffed a breath, trying to stay calm and not rise to the challenge. He knew Brock was just trying to bait him and he wasn't going to have any of it.

The last time he remembered sparring with the man, Brock had been a wreck and the whole thing had ended in a mess. He wasn't looking forward to recreating that or something worse. He felt out of control whenever he worked out on the heavy bag, like the arm had a mind of its own. He'd play along just enough to satisfy the other man and call it a day. Apparently that plan wasn't enough for Brock, who kept driving at him, throwing more and more weight and sped behind his blows.

“You're still holding back,” Brock snapped as James stepped out of range again instead of engaging. “Stop thinking so much.” James gritted his teeth and didn't reply. A flurry of blows forced him back towards the ropes. A heavy boot struck him dead centre in the chest, knocking him back with a grunt. He rebounded with a growl, anger building under his ribs. Brock had finally stopped talking, eyes sharp as he sprung forward with a swat to the side of James’ head.

James batted Brock’s hand away easier, matching blow for blow as he drove the shorter man back into the centre of the ring. He wasn't thinking now. He was feeling, moving on muscle memory from years of training and execution. He countered each strike easily, flowing like water around the other man. It was all instinct now, animalistic yet calculated. A stinging blow to the side of his face had him seizing the next opportunity, getting up and under Brock’s guard during a well-executed kick. With a snarl he flipped Brock up and slammed him down on the mats hard, felt the breath crash from the other man’s lungs.

  
A sickening crack echoed through the gym and it took James a minute to realize that he had caused it. He blinked, feeling himself straddling the other man’s hips, one hand tangled in the front of the man's shirt, so close he could feel Brock’s breath gently on his cheek. It took him another minute to realize that his other hand, the metal one, was buried up to the wrist in the padded floor, scant inches from Brock’s face.

He froze.

His breath caught in his chest and he couldn't get it back. He tried to bolt but his muscles were locked. He stared at the point of contact, the way the mats had dented in, ripped apart. It could have easily been Brock’s face that was caved in. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped, splashing red.  
No, the red was all in his head. No wait, it wasn’t. Blood was smeared across Brock’s lips, trickling down his chin in thin streams.

He couldn't breathe. He'd lost control. He could have….he almost….

A hand wrapped around his bicep, hot like a branding iron even through his sleeve. James’ eyes snapped up, startled, to meet Brock’s. The man was grinning, full and open, teeth stained pink and eyes more alive than James remembered them being in a long time. He found himself starting to grin back, until the sound of the gym door slamming open reverberated across the room and echoing footsteps prompted James to glance up.

He regretted looking up immediately as his faze locked with a pair of very blue and very angry eyes. “What do you think you're doing?” Steve said quietly, eyes snapping briefly between the two before settling on him. James tumbled off Brock, his fist yanking free of the mats with a ripping sound. “I didn't think—,” he fumbled weakly but Steve rode right over him. “Exactly,” he said crisply, eyes crackling. “You didn't think and look what happened.”

“Aw fuck off Cap,” Brock snapped harshly, rolling smoothly to his feet. “He's fine.”

“ _That_ ,” Steve spat, pointing accusingly at Brock’s bloody chin. “Is not fine.” James swallowed, feeling numb and unsure what to do with his hands. He felt six years old again, being scolded for once again being reckless and impulsive. “I've gotten worse from green recruits who didn't know their face from their ass,” Brock scoffed dismissively. “Not the point,” Steve said through his teeth and then James stopped listening.

The rushing roar that had started echoing in his ears when Steve had arrived was getting louder. His body felt numb, like he didn't know what to do with his hands. Beyond that, he was angry. Angry at himself for losing control, angry at Brock for goading him into it, angry at Steve for assuming he couldn't control himself in the first place. Slowly the anger grew focused and he realized with a start that he hadn't lost control. His training had taken over and he had acted on instinct, reacting instead of thinking, but he hadn't lost control. If he had, Brock would be in pieces on the gym floor. As the rage bubbled under his skin, the sharp voices of the other two men arguing stabbed at his head. Finally he'd had enough.

“ _Just shut up!”_

Two pairs of very surprised eyes snapped to him. Steve's mouth hung partially open in surprise. “I didn't lose control,” James growled out through clenched teeth. Steve’s mouth shut with a snap and his eyes flashed with that stubborn streak James knew Bucky and found infuriating and endearing in turns. “The hole in the floor says otherwise,” the blonde ground out. “Could’ve been his head,” James spat back. “But it wasn't.”

“Okay, let's all just take a breath,” Brock said cautiously as Steve opened his mouth to retaliate. “You stay out of this,” the man said, turning in anger to the former agent. “You've done enough.”

“Don't you dare,” James growled softly, taking a half step forward. Was it his imagination or did Steve actually pale a little? Clint stuck his head through the door behind Steve. “Are we fighting? Why are we fighting? Can I fight too?” he said mildly but his eyes were sharp as he took in the situation.

“No. We’re done here,” James said quietly, eyes never leaving Steve’s whose face still looked stunned, as if someone had hit him upside the head with a board. James turned on his heels and slipped nimbly under the ropes, heading out of the gym without a backwards glance.

 

 

  
It was Steve who found James on the roof, a couple hours later. He didn't move from his perch on the edge of the room, shirt and hair soaked through from the light rain that had only stopped a moment ago. His hands gripping the wet ledge tightly as the blonde man leaned up beside him. He could feel the cement cracking under his metal fingers. He continued staring out over the surprisingly grey city, not acknowledging the man next to him.

Fall was rolling in with a vengeance but James kind of liked it, the muteness of everything. The solitude. The silence. James refused to break that silence. He hadn't lost control, he wasn't going to apologies.

“I’m sorry,” he heard Steve say quietly.

The ledge cracked sharply under his hand, a chunk coming free under the pressure. If Steve noticed, he didn't show it. “I messed up,” he continued. “Again. I'm not…I'm having trouble knowing how to be around you.” James swallowed thickly. The painful honesty in Steve’s voice was raw and hard to hear. “It's my problem and I shouldn't be projecting it on you,” the blonde continued, staring pointedly out over the city. “Adjusting to life here was…is difficult,” he corrected. “And just when I felt like I was finding a balance, the rug got yanked out from under me again and I—,” Steve cut himself off sharply, swallowing whatever words were threatening to bubble over. “I’m making excuses,” he said ruefully. “It’s my problem and I need to deal with it, not lash out at you. It's not fair or helpful to anyone.”

James blew out the breath he hadn't know he was holding. “You don't trust me,” he said softly. “That's not true,” Steve insisted. James levied a disbelieving stare at the larger man and shouldn't have been surprised when Steve didn't back down and met James’ challenging glare. “I trust _you_ ,” he said steadily. “I don't trust what HYDRA put in your head.”

James’ lips twisted into a bitter smirk. “Same thing,” he said quietly. “No it's not,” the blonde said swiftly. James just shook his head, knowing Steve was wrong and couldn't see or accept it. The man couldn't see that it there was a good and whole person underneath the twisted and broken surface.

There was just him, whoever that was.

He heard Steve huff a breath. “Maybe…maybe that's not right. Maybe I am wrong,” the blonde finally said into the cold silence. “Maybe I shouldn't be trying to separate you from what was done to you.” James swallowed and it felt like gargling glass, pinpricks of pain scratching the whole way down.

“There's just me,” he whispered.

“And that should be enough.” James winced at the words, spoken so softly but still cutting deep. “But it isn't, is it?” He said bitterly, forcing himself to turn to look at the man beside him, the man he'd grown up beside, gone to war with, fought and literally died beside. Steve met his stare easily. “It is,” he promised. “It really is. Even if I don't always show it, whoever you are now is enough.” Steve took a shaky breath, staring down at the street far below. “I'm sorry,” he said again. “This is all my fault.”

“Just shut up,” James muttered, not really wanting to deal with Steve’s guilt spiral right now. The man always did have the habit of blaming himself for everything, regardless if it actually was his fault or not. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and never stopped to think that maybe he didn't have to, at least not all the time.

“It is, though,” Steve insisted. “You fell and I didn’t catch you.” James sighed, finally remembering to extract his left hand from the groove he had dug into the concrete. “Jesus, it’s nobody’s fault, Stevie,” he said quietly. How long had Steve been carrying that guilt around? Too long. It was something he had accepted a long time ago. Maybe he had been angry at first, when he had finally regained enough of himself to remember how he should have died. Not anymore though, because it wasn't Steve’s fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. “You did everything you could. It was an accident.”

“That cost you everything,” Steve said bitterly. “Not everything,” James whispered, picturing dark eyes and a mischievous smile. He sighed again, seeing Steve’s eye twitch ever so slightly. “Whether you like him or not, regardless of what he's done, he was always kind to me,” he explained patiently, feeling they had been over this enough. “Life dealt him the shit end of the stick, just like me. And he’s mine,” he said sternly as Steve opened his mouth, a look in his eye that said he wanted to argue.

Steve's shoulders shrugged under the force of the breath he took. “Well,” he said after a moment. “I guess I'll just have to try harder in the future.” James’ lips quirked in the barest of smirk. “See that you do,” he scolded.

They turned back to the skyline, watching the dark storm clouds blow closer, threatening more rain. “I miss it too,” James said softly, eyes distant as his mind wandering to a distant time, another place. “What?” Steve asked softly.

“Home,” he whispered.

He felt Steve stiffen beside him. “What, you thought you were the only one?” James said with a grin, happy to have been the one to catch Steve off balance for a change. “No, I just…,” Steve stammered. “I guess you seem so well adjusted to this time, I just assumed….” James chucked. “I've just had more practise.”

“What do you miss most?” Steve asked softly. “The music,” James replied immediately, memories flashing through his head. “The dancing. Remember that time we went to that church dance? We were what, sixteen? We went with those two red heads…”

“The Jenkins sisters,” Steve interjected when James paused. “Trixie and Stella,” James remembered with a grin, staring out over the city as if he could see into the past. “Yeah, and I sat near the back the whole night while you danced with the both of them,” Steve chuckled. James joined in ruefully. “I was a bit full of myself back then, wasn't I?”

“A bit?” Steve snorted incredulously. A mischievous spark lite up the man’s blue eyes and he turned to James with a smirk. “You remember the time you got snubbed by Peggy Carter in that French bar?” James groaned, leaning forward over the edge precariously to bury his face in his hands. “Don't remind me,” he said, words muffled by his fingers. “She certainly put you in your place,” Steve said, grinning wickedly. “Is she still alive?” James asked suddenly. “She is,” the blonde said, much to his surprise. There was something more behind his words than face value and he raised an eyebrow until Steve relented. “She has Alzheimer's,” he said reluctantly. “She forgets.”

“Ah,” James breathed. “You visit her?” Steve nodded, gazing once again out over the city. “I do. As often as I can. I used to talk to her about you, a lot in fact. She always knew the right thing to say, even when she thought it was still the forties.”

“I’d like to see her,” James said softly. “I think we can arrange that,” Steve said with a smile. A loud thunderclap directly over their heads made both of them flinch. That was the only warning they got before the sky opened and rain began to pour down in sheets. They scrambled for the elevator, tumbling inside soaked through. “The fuck is this weather?” James grumbled, combing his hair back out of his eyes.

Steve offered up no explanation and they rode the rest of the way down to the floor James was sharing with Brock in silence. The elevator slowed, the doors opening into the studio space. James took a half step forward, paused, and acted no instinct. He turned on his heels and wrapped his arms around the taller man. He felt Steve go stiff under his touch before hesitantly, gently returning the embrace.

“I missed you too, Stevie,” he said softly. He felt the man's arms tighten around him before reluctantly letting him go. If Steve's eyes looked a little watery, James didn't say anything, not while his own vision was blurring around the edges. Steve gave him a small smile and then the doors closed, hiding him from view.

He turned to find Brock perched in the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, another steaming on the counter beside him. “You patch things up?” he asked mildly, eyes not leaving whatever he was reading on the StarkPad. James huffed, shaking his head as he wandered over slowly. He had a sneaking suspicion that the dark haired man had exchanged words with Steve after James had stormed out of the gym. It might have even been him that convinced Steve to seek James out so quickly. Knowing Steve as he did, James had assumed he would have sulked for a few days before seeking him out.

“Sneaky bastard,” he muttered, snatching up the second mug and leaning against the counter beside the shorter man. “Hmmm?” Brock said mildly, swiping through the article he was reading. James didn't push it, taking a sip of what he was surprised to see was tea. Brock was always a coffee drinker, making it as strong as jet fuel and adding enough sugar to give a hummingbird a headache. Then James really clocked the bruising under the man's eyes, the slight slump in his shoulders, the glassy haze to his eyes as he blinked blankly down at the screen.

“Come on,” James chuckles, taking Brock's untouched tea from his hand. “ ‘m fine,” Brock insisted but didn't resist as James dragged him up the stairs and shoved him into bed. He was out before James had a chance to ask Jarvis to black out the windows. He smiled to himself, curling up beside Brock and allowing himself to be lulled by the other man’s steady breathing.

 

 

 

 

 _Breathe in. Breathe out_.

The polyester uniform, rigged with biosensors, was itchy as all hell. Processing had been long, boring, and invasive. After they'd sat him in a small room, cuffed to a table while some suit asked him questions he didn't have answers to for a few hours before they grew frustrated.

Then they shoved him in a small cell, eight steps from end to end, and left him. A glass front looked out into a circular room lined with other cells. He lay back on the bare mattress, closed his eyes, and breathed.

Breath was an odd thing. In deep states of meditation, some people could lower their heartbeat to the thirties, breathing so slow and shallow that it was like they weren't breathing at all. It was freeing, that deep seated calm. It allowed the mind to wander outside the confines of the physical.

_Just breath._

They came back, a few hours later, claiming he had another interview. He didn't question it as they slapped on the cuffs and marched him through the corridors. He didn't question it when they took a sudden turn down a mostly empty corridor. He did begin to wonder it when they shoved him into a side storage room, the door sliding shut behind them. He did question when the red light on the security camera blinked off.

_Breath in._

_Remember to breathe._

The man on his left came at him first, armed with one of those stun batons they seemed so fond of. He slide easily under it, flipping the man over his shoulder. Even cuffed, he was still dangerous.

Controlling your breath when you fought was incredibly important. You wouldn't want to get winded half way through because you got caught up in the wash of adrenaline and forgot how to breath properly.

_In and out._

You used your breath to help fuel your moves, to pack that extra power behind your punches, your kicks. And remembering to continue to breath through it all, calm and steady.

 _Breathe_.

Heat exploded through his torso, slicing back towards his spine as a thin blade slipped between his ribs as easily as if through butter. His breath caught painfully in his throat, lungs refusing to refill lest to cause more damage. His legs went weak and he locked his knees to keep from crashing to the ground. He snapped his head viciously, head cracking against something that held only a little resistance and the agent stumbled back with a curse, blood pouring from his ruined nose.

The blade was left behind.

He forced himself to breath, even though every inch made the metal shift and grind against his bones. He still had to breathe. Breathe through the pain. Identify, control, and conquer. Breathe. Breathing was key. The problem wasn't breathe. It was numbers, and they weren't in his favour.

A blow to his low back sent him crashing to the ground. His hand found his abdomen, slotting around the rough metal handle of the knife. Blood flowed freely between his fingers, staining the ground. He tasted metal and forgot how to breathe as another blow found the back of his head and the world crashed into black.

 

“Breathe, Brock.”

The voice was soft, yet stern and commanding. Brock ignored it. He didn't want to breath right now. The burning in his chest; he needed to feel that right now because without it he'd feel nothing. “Is he dead?” he asked stiffly, arms crossed to hid the fact his hands were shaking.

“He's in surgery,” Clint said, leaning against the railing of the stairs that lead up to their loft. The room was dark, dimly lit by Jarvis who had pulled them as gently as he could from their sleep, informing them that the archer was on his way up with urgent news. “A few more minutes and it would have been too late.”

“Will he survive?” Clint shrugged, eyes guarded and giving nothing away. “It's too early to tell,” he replied, tone revealing nothing of the gears Brock could see were clearing whirring in his head, calculating his reactions. “He lost a lot of blood.”

“What do you want to do?” he heard James ask quietly. That was a good question, one he couldn't answer. He sucked in a breath, feeling his chest constrict painfully and reminded himself that regular, steady breathing was a good idea.

_Breathe._

_Just breathe._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! The start of this chapter was impossible to write! Feedback is my fairy dust!! Hope you are all still enjoying :)


	15. The Truth About Monsters

Brock hated hospitals. He hated the smell; the acidic bleach trying and failing to cover up the scent of old blood. He hated how white everything was. It bleached everything out, casting sickly shadows. It stained too easily. He hated how cheery so many people seemed, smiling through the day regardless of how many people puked, pissed, or died on them. SHIELD hospitals were no different. The nurse tending to Jack was cheery, perky and pleasant with a smile plastered on her face as she went about her work. Perky and cheery even though she was tending to a convicted terrorist. She did her checks quickly and slipped out of the room, gave Brock a quick update that he barely listened to. Then she left, giving him one last perky smile.

Considered a flight risk and highly dangerous, Jack had been sequestered in a private room after his surgery. Brock stood stiffly, staring at the prone figure through the one-way mirror.

Why the fuck had he come?

He wasn’t sure if James understood why he came. He had given him this strange look, one Brock couldn't understand, and had simply asked if Brock wanted company. Brock had declined the offer, saying he wanted to do this alone. There was a shadow that lurked behind the concern in those bright blue eyes, something protective and lethal and it made Brock nervous.

Rogers didn't understand, that was clear. They had crossed paths in the hallway of the SHIELD facility where they had airlifted Jack to. Brock could tell Rogers trusted him even less now than he had before, which was saying something. The man saw everything in black and white when the world, and certainly Brock’s life, was filled with greys and reds.

Clint understood. He had come along, shutting down Brock’s protest with a roll of his eyes and a dismissive wave as he hopped into the back of the SUV beside Brock. There is a bond that forms when you fight beside someone for long enough, something that is invisible and very hard to break. Brock could see it in Clint's eyes when the archer clapped a hand on his shoulder and left to get coffee, that he understood why Brock had to come.

Brock wasn’t sure he fully understand it himself. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to leave, to let Jack rot in the darkest hole in the ground for what he did to him. The other side saw the man who he grew up with, who was his brother in every sense of the word. They had fought beside each other, nearly died beside each other, saved one another's life countless times, pulled the other from the abyss and kept on surviving. Together.

  
_“You’re okay, you’re home, you’re safe.”_

   
Brock squeezed his eyes shut against the echoing voices and flashes of images. The episodes of resurfacing memories were happening less and less frequently these days but they always seemed to crop up at inconvenient times, reminding Brock of things he didn't necessarily want to remember in that moment.

  

 _The tile was cold under his feet as he perched on the edge of the bathtub, useless words tumbling from his lips in what he hoped was a soothing mantra. Anything to calm the shaking man who sat on his knees beside him._ _The room stank of sweat and vomit, acidic and sharp and stinging._

_J_ _ack trembled as he dry heaved over the toilet, plagued still by the clinging night terrors that had sent him scrambling out of bed. Night terrors that had wrenched Brock from his sleep, causing his fingers to curl instinctively around the Glock he kept under his pillow as the hoarse screams echoed through their shared apartment._

_“You’re okay, you’re home, you’re safe.”_

_Jack just wouldn't stop shaking. His teeth clacked together as he trembled, sweat dripping from his hair and soaking his shirt through. He flinched violently as Brock slowly reached for the fluffy towel that hung on the rack behind them._

_“You’re okay, you’re home, you’re safe.”_

_Brock kept up the mantra, murmuring softly as he draped the towel around Jack’s shoulders in an attempt to keep him warm. Tears leaked from the corners of Jack’s eyes and mixed with the sweat, dripping down his neck. Brock pretended not to notice._

_“Fuck,” Jack croaked brokenly and Brock broke a little too._

_Slowly, ever so slowly, Jack slumped to the side. His side brushed up against Brock’s knees. Brock could feel the larger man’s fluttering breaths against his shins. He hated seeing Jack like this. He mentally kicked himself. They should have found Jack sooner. He had been missing for weeks. He had been held and tortured by those bastards for fucking weeks! Why hadn't Brock found him sooner?! He lay a hand gently on Jack’s shoulder, swallowing thickly at the automatic flinch that crashed through Jack’s body at the simple touch._

 

   
“Fuck,” Brock whispered, blinking away the memory. He didn't want to be here, staring down at someone who he thought he had know. Someone who he had trusted with his life. Someone who had been a monster all along. His _Nonna_  had been right. He didn't remember much of her, he had been so young when she died, but he did remember what she always used to tell him, every night before he went to bed:

_"Remember, the real monsters don't hide under your bed. The real monsters come dressed as people and claim to care."_

Pretty fucked up thing to tell a four-year-old but she had been right. The real monster was laying  _in_ the bed, swathed in white like a demented angel trying to hide its true colours. 

He was startled back to the present as Jack suddenly thrashed, eyes fluttering open in a panic as he arched against the padded restraints that strapped him to the bed. “Shit,” Brock sighed. “Hey, a little help in here,” he called out, to the resounding echo of silence. “Hey," he cried, sticking his head out into the hallway. "Anyone? I said I need help in here! Hello?!” Only more silence and a few passing agents who didn't spare a glance at him was his answer. “Christ,” Brock muttered as he wrenched the inner door open and strode to the side of the bed.

“Hey, hey! Stop thrashing, dumbass. You’ll tear out your staples,” he snapped, wrapping a hand around each of Jack’s biceps to try and still the larger man. “Rollins, stop!” he barked, the old tone he used on the battlefield slipping out. Bright green eyes, with pupils blown wide with adrenaline and still hazy from the anesthesia, snapped up to meet his.

“You’re okay, you’re safe.”

The words slipped out without him meaning to, the automatic reflex to the panic that radiated from the younger man. Slowly, Jack relaxed under Brock’s hands. His breathing slowed and evened. “Brock?” Jack croaked, voice rough and hoarse from intubation, confusion laced heavily through his words.

His eyes blinked sluggishly, gaze traveling down to where Brock still held his arms. Brock yanked his hands back, tucking them firmly under his arms. “What happened?” Jack slurred, although it sounded a bit more like _“W’t hap’n’d.”_

“You got jumped,” Brock said stiffly. “Yeah, no shit,” Jack muttered, frowning as his hands met with the resistance from the cuffs again. “Where am I?”

“SHIELD facility. You had to have surgery, blade perforated your liver,” Brock explained tonelessly. “That sucks,” Jack murmured, relaxing back against the bed. “You remember anything?” Brock asked with a sniff, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “About the attack?”

He kept his eyes on his boots, feeling Jack’s gaze on him. He didn’t want to meet that gaze. Jack always did have the ability to see straight through him, to read him like an open book. “Got led into a side storage room,” Jack was saying. “Got the shit kicked out of me.” A beat of silence, broken only by the soft beep of the machines in the background. “They were HYDRA.”

Brock’s eyes snapped up to Jack’s face. “Don’t bullshit me,” he growled softly. “I remember,” Jack insisted, eyes still hazy but sharper then they had been before. “Right before I lost consciousness I heard him say it. _Hail HYDRA, traitor_.” Brock frowned in confusion. “Why would HYDRA want you dead?”

“You really don’t remember anything, do you?” Jack said softly, eyes growing sad which just managed to confuse Brock even more. “I remember enough,” he said bitterly, unwilling to have this conversation again, to relive those painful memories. “You really don’t,” Jack whispered, eyes fluttering as his healing body pulled him back into unconsciousness. “You gonna be here when I wake up?” he asked tiredly, a sliver of almost childlike insecurity slipping into his tone. Or maybe Brock was just reading too much into it.

“No,” he said stiffly. Jack smirked, eyes sliding shut. “Liar,” he whispered as he fell back to sleep. Brock swallowed thickly, jaw twitching as he ground his teeth together. He turned and marched out of the room without a glance back.

 

 

Clint found him about an hour later, curled into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the observation room, legs kicked up onto the ledge of the one-way window. He didn’t say a word, just dragged over another chair and handed Brock a cup of steaming coffee. Brock took a sip, grimacing at the bitter taste. They sat in silence for a while. That was another thing he liked about the archer. Clint never was one to chatter needlessly. He wasn’t afraid of the silence.

“He said they were HYDRA,” Brock finally said, the coffee long since gone cold in his hand. “They were,” Clint confirmed. “Cyanide,” he explained when Brock turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Hidden in a tooth. All of them. Hadn’t even got the handcuffs on ‘em before they dropped. Classic, if a bit overdramatic.” Brock said nothing. So Jack had been telling the truth, about that at least.

“He wake up yet?” Clint asked, sipping at his own coffee. “Yeah,” was all Brock said and Clint didn’t push further. They just sat quietly as time passed. A few nurses trickled in and out, checking Jack’s vitals and bandages but never lingering for long. The perky one came back, shooting the two of them a cheery smile after she changed Jack’s dressings.

Brock was beginning to nod off when he heard the subtle change in the beeping coming from the other side of the wall. Brock dropped his legs and sat up, watching Jack crawl back into consciousness. “I’ll go get more coffee.” He heard Clint stand and shuffle out down the hallway.

He huffed a sigh, watching as that perky nurse crossed in yet again, exchanging a few murmured words with Jack, checking a few things as they spoke. A stern looking doctor strode in moments later, completely ignoring Brock as he briskly checked over Jack before briskly striding out again. Perky shot Brock a smile as she left. Brock struggled not to roll his eyes in her face.

He stood, contemplated just leaving, but somehow found his feet leading him into Jack’s room and not out into the hallway. The small, smug smirk that played across Jack’s face was infuriating. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

“Shut up,” Brock snapped on reflex, only causing Jack’s smirk to grow wider. “I’m not in the mood for your fucking mind games, Rollins,” Brock growled. That sobered the restrained man up quickly. His face closed off and his throat bobbed as he swallowed painfully. “Okay,” he said softly.

“I’m here. I’ll listen. You have five minutes,” he said stiffly. Jack licked his lips, one of his nervous habits. “I’m not sure where to start,” he said hesitantly, an incredibly strange tone to hear from the regularly confident man. “Figure it out,” Brock said harshly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Will you at least sit?” Jack asked, eyes almost pleading. Brock hesitated but finally relented, dragging over a nearby chair. He said nothing more, simply staring cooly across at the other man who suddenly looked very fragile and small. The white of the bedding bleached out the colour of his normally tanned skin, creating a waxy pallor. Jack licked his lips again.

“You're right. I did know,” he started, searching Brock’s shuttered eyes. “About you and Barnes. I knew because you told me. You figured it out after Germany.” Brock’s mouth went dry. He remembered back, not to Germany but to a conversation with James so many months ago now. A hesitant conversation across a kitchen island, filled with choked memories and stilted attempts at apologies.

  
_“You had a meltdown on the flight home….Took ages to calm you down.”_

 

Other images, memories stained with snow and frost and blood crashed into his mind, flooding his senses:

_The harsh chemical scent of jet fuel._

_Tangy gunpowder burned into dark, tangled hair._

_Hard frozen leather and icy cold metal underneath his tactical gloves._

_“ m’ head hurts.”_

_“I gotcha. Just breath.”_

 

He blinked the memories from behind his eyes, realizing that Jack was still talking. “You came to me in a panic, babbling like a lunatic. It took me almost ten minutes to calm you down enough for you to start making sense.”

  
_“Is this the part where you put a bullet in my skull?”_

  
Brock winced as more memories hammered at the inside of his skull. The images flowed across his eyes, smooth and coherently. They clicked together, forming a complete picture. A complete memory, nothing like what he had seen before. What had resurfaced before as splintered, confusing shards of memory so out of context that they had been utterly confusing. Now though, now they made sense. 

  

_“Deep breath, okay? Calm down,” Jack commanded, holding Brock’s panicked eyes with his calm ones. Brock tried, he really did, to calm his breathing but it was really difficult. He felt like he was spinning out of control, splintering at the edges. He could feel his muscles trembling with adrenaline and pure, naked fear._

_“Calm the fuck down,” Jack growled. Brock gasped, trying to comply. Jack’s hands on his shoulders were a grounding pressure, helping Brock to catch his breath and calm down enough to be able to speak coherently. “Now tell me what the fuck is going on,” Jack said patiently, guiding Brock to a nearby barstool by the kitchen counter._

_“IthinkI’msoulbondedwiththeAsset.”_

_Brock blurted it out, the words slurring and tripping over themselves in the rush to get off his tongue. Maybe the faster he said it, the easier it would be to take when Jack decided to shoot him through the throat._

_“Tell me again, slowly,” Jack ordered. Brock took a deep shaky breath. Jack’s hands on his shoulders felt like branding irons even through his leather jacket. He took another breath and spoke with exaggerated care._

_“I think I’m soul bonded with the Asset.”_

_He felt Jack freeze. His shocked eyes bore into his and Brock trembled under the younger man’s hands. He thought he knew this man. He’d known him for years, for decades. They’d practically grown up together, survived the military together, got recruited to HYDRA and then SHIELD together. They’d practically lived in each other’s pockets since they were sixteen. He knew what Jack was thinking and feeling before the other man knew himself._

_And yet, here in this moment Brock had no idea how Jack was going to react._

_Jack sat back, hands numbly slipping off Brock’s shoulders. He just kept staring at him, shock sparking across his eyes. Brock wished he would just say something, anything. Punch him across the face. Shoot him, just something other than this silence, for Christ’s sake!_

_“Okay,” Jack finally said. “So what now?”_

_Brock swallowed dryly. “Is this the part where you put a bullet in my skull?” Jack raised a single eyebrow, giving him a scathing look. “Don’t be an idiot. I’m here to help.”_

_He forgot how to breathe for a moment. This was beyond anything he could have imagined but it was so typical Jack. Just to take anything thrown into his way in stride, without so much as blinking. Just simply adapting to the new situation._

_It was too overwhelming and Brock leapt to his feet, resuming the frantic pacing he had been doing when he first arrived. “This can’t be happening,” he gasped, feeling the panic rising once again to grip his chest like a vice._ _His mind was blank, but in a cloudy way as if he couldn't think rationally anymore. Everything was being swamped with base animalistic instinct._

Fight or flight.

_“I can’t…What the fuck are we gonna do?!” he cried._

_Hands grabbed his shoulders again, yanking him around. Hands gripped hard enough to bruise. Brock wouldn't be surprised in the least to find a shadowy fingerprint pattered across his shoulders the next time he showered._

_“We need to get you out of here. Both of you.” Green eyes stared into his, darker and deathly serious. Brock felt laughter bubble up in his chest, spilling past his lips in a manic fashion. He couldn't have stopped it if he tried. “That can’t happen and you know it!” he snapped. “We don’t get to just walk away. They won’t let us and they’ll kill us if we try.” He couldn't understand why Jack was shaking his head. “Well, they can’t kill you,” he said reasonably._

_“It’d ruin him.”_

_Brock blinked. It was so like Jack, just to take what he was saying at face value, not bothering to question or doubt him even in the slightest._

_He took a breath to reply…._

 

“Fight it is then,” Brock murmured quietly.

He startled out of the memory’s grip to find Jack staring at him knowingly. “You’re remembering,” he said with a small smile. Brock sniffed, struggling to not only regain but retain his composure. “It only means you’re a good liar,” he said cruelly, not ready yet to allow Jack even a sliver of a chance.  “You have two minutes left,” he said briskly, ignoring the small twinge of guilt as Jack’s eyes shuttered over, growing cold and distant.

“We were coming up with a plan,” Jack continued. “But then you saw an opportunity and smuggled him out. Brought him to the flat like the hard headed, spontaneous idiot that…,”

Brock could still see Jack’s lips moving but his voice became muffled, like he was underwater. Brock clenched his eyes shut, hand flying to his head as pain cracked up his neck and thrummed under his skull.

 

  _Jack digging out their emergency bags from under the sink._

_Jack grabbing him and shoving him up against a wall, lips twisted into a snarl but eyes more scared than Brock had ever seen them look._

_“You stupid fuck, that the fuck where you thinking!?”_

_“I wasn’t—,”_

_“Exactly. You never fucking think. Fuck!”_

_Jack cracking his fist into the wall next to Brock’s head, showing them both with plaster bits._

_The bit that was missing before; James standing in the corner, looking lost and confused._

_Boots echoing in the corridor. Harsh voices barked commands as the apartment door splintered inwards._

 

Brock’s eyes flew open again with a quiet gasp. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes as he fought back a rush of nausea. “Does that happen often?” he heard Jack ask quietly. “Often enough,” Brock grumbled, wiping moisture from the corner of his eyes as he sat back up.

“So what,” Brock said harshly. “You set up a trap, turned us in?” Jack sighed, suddenly looking very tired. “Hardly,” he said softly. Something in his eyes pulled Brock up short, stopping him from snapping back something cruel and biting. It was a painfully familiar look, one Brock had seen many times before.

"They caught us, obviously,” Jack continued, eyes downcast as his hands fiddled with the edge of the blankets. “They wiped the Asset and threw him back in cryo immediately. Then they took their time with us.” Jack broke off, jaw muscles twitching. Brock sat frozen, breath shallow in his chest. He had a dreadful feeling he knew this was going and he just prayed he was wrong. He knew he wasn’t but he prayed all the same. “What are you saying?” he whispered. What did he forget? What did they _make_ him forget?

Jack turned sad eyes up to meet his. “Remember that mission to Oslo?” he said quietly. “The one you were benched for?”

“Of course I remember," Brock said bitterly, not exactly _remembering_ but knowing he had been told what had happened at some point. "We lost an entire squad that day. You lost your eye...,” Brock’s stomach dropped into his boots and he trailed off as Jack shook his head, glancing away.

“There never was a mission to Oslo,” he confessed softly. Brock didn’t understand. That couldn't be right. “But... I was briefed on it. You told me about that mission yourself," he stumbled but Jack was shaking is head again. "I told you what they told me to say," he said, voice now sounding choked, like he was forcing the words out. "They wanted me to remember what they did so we wouldn't try it again. But they made you forget.”

The pain that exploded behind his eyes sent Brock pitching forward off the chair and onto the floor. He barely felt the pain as his knees cracked against the hard tile. His vision bloomed white and then flashed black. The ringing in his ears was deafening. Blue lightning crackled under his eyelids.

 

_Brock arched off the floor with a strangled scream as the bamsticks sent volts of electricity cracking through his body. “That’s enough,” a stern voice cracked through the room. The pain stopped and Brock gasped, curling in on himself._

_Hands grabbed him roughly and pulled him up to his knees. He swayed against the hands, blinking owlishly as Pierce’s face swam into view. “You disappoint me, Commander,” he said, eyes flashing icily as he stared down at Brock._

_A brisk nod and Brock’s world imploded into pain once again. He writhed on the cold cement floor, gasping with relief when the blue lightening finally stopped rolling under his eyes. “No marks,” Pierce snapped sternly as a well placed boot to the ribs punched the breath from Brock’s lungs._

_“Get him up.”_ _Brock was dragged up to his knees as footsteps echoed in the hall and three men stormed through the door, dragging a limp bulky silhouette between them._

_“Jack,” Brock croaked as the agents shoved Jack to his knees._

_The man had been beaten almost past recognition. He swayed dizzily against the agents who held him, head lolling limply. Blood poured from his nose and bubbled over his lips._ _Bruises bloomed across his face and through the rips in his shirt. One eye was swollen completely shut, blood and a clear liquid leaking alarmingly from under the bruised lid. The younger man’s breath hitched and wheezed, indicating broken ribs, maybe even a punctured lung._

_Brock hissed as a hand tangled in his hair and wrenched his head back sharply. Pierce’s face loomed over him. “The only reason I don't kill you both now is that I still have a use for you,” the man said calmly. “But don’t think for a second I won’t put you down once that use has expired.”_

_Brock’s head snapped forward as Pierce let him go with a shove. Another nod and the agents dropped Jack to the ground with a heavy thud. “Prep him,” Brock heard Pierce snap. Boot heels clicked on the floor as Brock was dragged out of the room._

_“No, no. NO!”_

_The remaining agents began laying into Jack, using their heavy boots with deadly accuracy. “Jack!” he screamed as one particularly nasty blow snapped Jack’s head up and back, blood spraying over the floor in a wide arch. Then they turned the corner and Brock lost sight of him._

_He struggled, fighting them every step of the way. A cold wash of fear crashed over him as he began to recognize their surroundings. “What the fuck are you doing?” he growled, bucking against the agents’ hold on him._ _A well placed jolt to his lower back had him falling limp, his boot heels dragging and squeaking on the slippery floor._

_His head lolled to the side and adrenaline spiked again as he recognized the room they had dragged him into. “What the fuck are you doing?!” he screamed as hands shoved him into a familiar metal chair._

_Straps lashed around his wrists, his angles, across his chest. More hands held his head down, shoving a guard between his teeth. The terrifying and familiar sound of the machine whirring to life sounded behind him, above him, all around him._

_“This is for your own good.” His panicked eyes snapped to Pierce as the man leaned over him, eyes hard and cold and remorseless. “For the good of the cause,” the bastard said, truly believing every word he was saying._

_“You make him weak. And we can’t allow that.”_

_Pierce nodded, stepping back as something cold clamped down on either side of Brock’s head._ _He struggled, snarling and hurling muffled curses and then he was screaming._ _Searing pain like nothing he had ever experienced before burned through his body, all the way out into his fingertips, coursing down his legs._

_He felt his body arch against the straps that held him fast and he screamed._

_The pain was unbearable._

_Burning him from the inside out._

_Striking every nerve ending._

_Setting his brain on fire._

_“Hail HYDRA.”_

 

  
Brock came back to himself all at once. He was on his hands and knees, the cold tile seeping into his joints. Sweat soaked his shirt through and dripped from his hair and he couldn't stop shaking. He then became aware of the hands on his back, his arm, supporting. He glanced up, a jerky movement as his body tried to regain control.

Clint looked down at him, eyes bright with concern. “You back?” Clint asked gently, hands stabilizing and keeping Brock upright more than the older man would like to admit. Brock glanced over his shoulder, to Jack who was sitting up and leaning over the edge of the bed, eyes bright with pain and worry.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Brock croaked. Clint produced a bedpan out of thin air and just in time too as Brock emptied the merger contents of his stomach. He fell back with a grimace, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand. Clint slide the pan under the bed without a word, sitting back on his haunches and watching Brock with a sharp eye.

“I remember,” Brock gasped.

He turned to Jack, eyes wide and hectic. He hadn’t believed him. He had thought the worst, the absolute worst. Yet the man had risked everything to help him, had lost an eye trying to help him and James. “I remember everything,” he whispered. Jack nodded, a painful understanding in his eyes.

Then Jack’s eyes rolled back and he collapsed.

Only Clint’s quick reflexes kept the man from pitching head first onto the floor as the machines around them shrieked in alarm. Footsteps pounded outside as people rushed in. They swarmed Jack, dropping the bed down flat. Voices layered over each other in a frenzy.

“What…what’s happening?” Brock croaked as he struggled to his feet, legs feeling wobbly underneath him. He locked his knees, leaning heavily against the nearby closet. Suddenly Jack arched off the bed, his entire body going rigid. “He’s seizing,” someone snapped and hands rolled Jack over, supporting him as his body shook and jerked like a possessed doll.

“What the fuck is going on?” Brock snapped but no one was listening or paying attention to him. Darkness crept in around the corners of his vision and Brock swayed, struggling to stay upright. A hand wrapped around his waist, strong chest pressing up behind him but Brock didn’t turn. His eyes were locked on Jack.

“His BP is tanking!”

“He’s crashing!”

“We need to get him into surgery _now_!”

And in mere seconds they had wheeled him out of the room and then Jack was gone. Brock’s breath hitched. The room seemed to spin. This was all happening too fast. Too fast. He felt Clint’s arms tighten around him, his chin pressing up against the back of Brock’s shoulder. But…then how was Clint standing in front of him, telling him he was going to go wait for updates and would be back with any news? How was Clint striding out of the room if Clint was behind him, keeping him upright?

Brock turned and looked into the brightest, bluest eyes he had ever seen. He let hands gently guide him out of the room and sit him down in a chair. Brock felt numb. There was a ringing in his ears. Everything had happened too fast. He became aware of the hands that were holding his. He blinked, coming back to reality a little more as he looked up at James.

Calm enveloped him in it’s warm embrace as his breathing slowed to match James’. “What are you doing here?” Brock asked, not meaning to be unkind but not knowing a better way to say it. James didn't take it the wrong way.

“You really think I was just going to sit around on my hands and wait?” the younger man asked with a wry smile. “You said you wanted to do this alone and I respected that but there was no way in hell I wasn't going to be here to watch your back.” Brock swallowed, too overwhelmed for words. So instead he leaned forward, pressing his lips chastely against his bonded. James broke the kiss first, cupping Brock’s cheek and pressing his lips against his temple before pulling him into a warm embrace.

“I'll always have your back,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Brock whispered in reply.

“I remembered the first time they wiped me,” he said softly, head tucked against James’ shoulder. He felt James stiffen and an arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him in close. “Fuck,” the younger man breathed. Brock huffed a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he agreed. He wasn't processing everything fully yet, his mind still overwhelmed from the rush of information and repressed memories.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confessed quietly. Everything went from mostly black and white to entirely different shades of grey. Of red. All the reasons he had for hating Jack were now warring against everything he had just learned and remembered. The monster he thought he saw had changed again, leaving him feeling even more lost and confused than he had been before.

James' arms around him tightened again, causing the side of the plastic chair to dig into Brock’s ribs. He didn’t pay it any mind. He reached up, tangling a hand in the front of the taller man's jacket and pulling him even closer. “We’ll figure it out,” James promised, resting his chin on the top of Brock's head. 

“We’ll figure it out.”

 

 

 

 

 _The truth is this,_  
_every monster you meet_  
_or will ever meet,_  
_was once a human being_  
_with a soul_  
_that was as soft_  
_and light_  
_as silk._

 _Someone stole_  
_that silk from their soul_  
_and turned them_  
_into this._

 _So when you see_  
_a monster next,_  
_always remember this._  
_Do not fear_  
_the thing before you._  
_Fear the thing_  
_that created it_  
_instead._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is my fairy dust!! Hopefully you all are still enjoying this story and where I am taking the characters! xx 
> 
> (DISCLAIMER: Credit for the poem at the end of the story and the inspiration for the Nonna quote goes completely to the fabulous poet Nikita Gill. I take no credit for it whatsoever. If you don't know of her work, I highly recommend you check her out!!)


	16. The Monster Inside You

“Bucky?”

Steve hesitated as the elevator doors opened onto the floor Bucky shared with Rumlow. That had been something that had happened so abruptly that Steve hadn't even been able to properly process it.

Not that Bucky had given him any say in the matter. Steve had very little to say about anything to do with Bucky these days. Not that he wanted to control Bucky. That was the last thing he wanted. He wanted Bucky to be independent. He wanted Bucky to have a life again. Sometimes it felt like he was standing in the way of that. It was just…sometimes it felt like he had gotten his best friend back just to have him taken away again.

Steve gave his head a shake, dispelling the thoughts that were circling his head endlessly. He hated it when they cropped up. It felt selfish to even think like that, made Steve feel small and needy. Right now, all that mattered was Bucky. Steve hadn’t even hesitated when Jarvis said the man was in need of assistance, what with Rumlow was still back at the hospital, waiting for Rollins to get out of surgery.

“Buck?” Steve called, stepping out onto the floor.

No response.

“Jarvis?” Steve asked softly, glancing around the kitchen-living room combo of the studio-style suite. “Upstairs, sir,” Jarvis said. “Hey Bucky?” Steve called out, heading towards the bottom of the stairs.

Silence.

“Buck, I’m coming up,” he warned as he slowly ascended to the half loft where the bedroom was. At first he thought it was empty. The bed was made, if a little rumpled. Two sets of sweatpants were thrown over a chair. Two towels hung in the nearby bathroom. Nothing looked out of sorts.

It took a moment but then Steve noticed a thatch of tangled dark hair sticking up from the other side of the bed. He found Bucky sitting on the floor, back resting against the side of the bed. His knees to his chest as he stared out the window. “Hey,” Steve whispered as he crouched down beside him, leaving enough space so the other man doesn't feel crowded.

Steve resisted the urge to touch him. He learned early on that it wasn’t a good idea. When Bucky had first been brought to the tower, he’d had sever mood swings for the first few weeks. Steve was used to dealing with Bucky in different moods. He’d had the man lash out, both physically and verbally, on multiple occasions. Steve had talked him down from painful and violent flashbacks, walked him through panic attacks, even had to calm Bucky down when he’d dissociated and couldn't remember who or where he was.

This however...Steve had never seen anything like this.   
  
James didn’t look at him. He didn’t spare a single glance as he stared blankly out the window, eyes looking glazed and unfocused. “Bucky?” Steve said softly. James didn’t say anything but Steve could see the tears that suddenly welled in the corners of his bright blue eyes.

“You need to leave,” James whispered softly after a long silence.

“It’s okay, Buck—,” Steve tried but James rode right over him, voice sounding thick and choked. “Just get out,” he breathed. Steve could see the skin across James’ right hand strain white as he clenched at his jeans. “Now.”

“Okay,” Steve murmured, swallowing around the lump that welled in his throat at the rejection. “I’m just a few floors away if you need anything.” He wasn’t expecting a response and he didn’t get one. Stifling a sigh, Steve began to head back downstairs.

There was no way Steve was leaving Bucky like this but as he stepped down the last stair, so stuck in his head that he didn’t even hear the elevator doors slide open. His eyes snapped up as movement flashed in the corner of his eye. Rumlow strode boldly out of the elevator, eyes sharp even with the dark shadows that bruised under his eyes. Steve briefly wondered how long it’s been since the man got a good night sleep.

“I was just leaving,” he muttered, brushing past the man.

“No,” Rumlow said, boldly grabbing him by the bicep. “No, you stay.” Like James, the HYDRA Commander — _former_ HYDRA commander, Steve had to remind himself — didn’t even spare him a glance, worried eyes staring up towards the loft. “Pretty sure this has something to do with you,” he murmured.

He took the stairs two at a time, leaving Steve to wonder what the hell the man was talking about and what exactly he was supposed to do now. He strained to make out the muffled, murmuring voices from upstairs but even with his superior hearing, he couldn't make anything out.

Steve felt like he’d been sitting at the kitchen island for hours before soft footsteps made him turn. “Go,” Rumlow said gruffly with a jerk of his head as he brushed past him into the kitchen. “You two’ve got some shit to sort out.” Steve hesitated, feeling completely in unknown territory but Rumlow just flapped a hand in his direction before putting the kettle on to boil. 

Upon reaching the loft, Steve found Bucky sitting on the end of the bed. He was leaning forward, elbows on knees, hair now pulled back into a neat tail. As Steve came closer he could see the dried tear streaks that stained the man’s cheeks, his eyes red but dry. 

Steve swallowed, finding his mouth dry as a bone. He hesitated, unsure if he should say something or wait for Bucky to start. The other man seemed to see Steve wavering and rolled his eyes. “Stop hovering,” he said softly, scooting himself over to make room at the end of the bed. Steve sat gingerly beside him, back ramrod straight and muscles tense. “Jesus,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Relax before somethin’ snaps, will yah?” Steve felt his chest flutter, hearing that oh-so familiar Brooklyn drawl creep into Bucky’s words. The man sobered pretty quick, swallowing thickly.

“After I fell,” he started, trailing off as he stared into middle space.

Steve took a breath, trying to stay calm as he watched as the light blinked out of Bucky’s eyes. The glimpse of the man he'd grown up with vanished completely, something cold and remote replacing it. Steve felt the hairs on his arms tingle in alarm and he was about to… do something, what he didn't know, when Bucky started speaking again. 

“After I fell,” the former assassin said again, voice scarily calm and deadpan. “After they cut me up and gave me this.” His left hand twitched as if on its own, the plates whirring quietly as they shifted. “They couldn't break me. They tried, for a long time but they couldn't. And you wanna know why?” Steve felt like it was a rhetorical question and it was because Bucky kept on talking, once again not sparing a glance to him.

“Because I had your fucking voice in my head the entire time. You wouldn't shut up. You kept telling me to just hold on, to just get through one more day, one more session, because you were coming. You were coming for me.” 

Steve felt his heart stop dead in his chest. He'd been carrying the guilt of not catching Bucky when he felt from the train, for not going after him, for realizing that Zola’s experiments could have altered his DNA allowing him to survive the fall. No matter how many times reassured him, Bucky included, he just couldn't shake the feeling that it was all his fault. And now this….

This was so much worse. 

“And then one day they came in and showed me a newspaper clipping,” Bucky continued in that awful flat-sounding voice that made Steve’s skin crawl. “It said that Captain America had died nosediving a plane into the arctic. And that was it.” A few cracks appeared in that smooth exterior as Bucky's fingers flexed against the bedspread. 

“That’s when I knew no one was coming for me. And I broke.” Bucky’s voiced cracked and he bit off the words, jaw muscles jumping as Steve just focused on breathing. 

“I killed three scientists before they managed to subdue me. They put me on ice for who knows how long and when I woke up, it was straight into the chair and I just… forgot. I forgot everything. I forgot my family, my home. I forgot the war, the men who died in front of me. I forgot you.” Bucky’s voice had almost disappeared now, down to the barest whisper that even Steve was straining to hear. 

“I forgot me.”

Steve’s eyes burned and he blinked rapidly, staring down at his hands. His throat hurt and his chest felt tight in a way he hadn't felt since he was a scrawny kid having an asthma attack. “And now,” Bucky’s breath hitched, ever so slightly. “Now I think maybe it’d be easier to just forget again. Because then I wouldn’t have to live with the things that I’ve done. I wouldn’t have to live with letting you down.”

“What?” Steve breathed, finally shaken from his stupor by those last few words. “Buck, you’ve never let me down.” His words seemed to fall on deaf ears as Bucky continued like he’d never even heard him. “After what we fought for, what you died for….and then I just….Steve, I’ve killed people. Innocent people.”

“None of that was your fault,” Steve insisted but Bucky shook his head. “I should have fought harder. I just rolled over and let them do this to me.”

Steve had heard enough. He wrapped his hands around Bucky’s biceps, forcibly turning the man to face him. “Now you listen to me,” Steve whispered harshly, giving the other man a sharp shake when he tried to look away. “Hey, look at me,” he demanded. “The Bucky Barnes I know is a fighter. He wouldn’t have taken any of it lying down.”

“Bucky Barnes is dead,” the dark haired man whispered, and not for the first time. “He died falling from a train.”

“I don’t believe that,” Steve insisted. “I can’t believe that because he is sitting right in front of me.”

“But how can you be sure?” Bucky whispered, staring down at his hands. “I have his memories. I know what he was like, what he felt like, and that isn’t me. Not anymore. I don’t have the right.”

“You have every right,” Steve said, noticing with a start the temperature difference between the two arms he was holding on to. He forced his brain to disregard that, to focus on the man shaking his head sharply in front of him. “No, no, no, no,” Bucky muttered, hair pulling free from its tail as his head whipped from side to side.

Then he went still. His eyes got a far-off look in them. It was like he was focusing on something far away, or trying to hear a distant sound. Whatever it was completely calmed the man down. He huffed a shaky breath, staring down at his hands.

“I’m not the same person,” Bucky whispered. Steve forced a chuckle. “And you think I am? I’m certainly not the same scrawny kid that signed up for a war he had no business fighting in.”

“Damn straight you had no business,” Bucky whispered and then blinked, like he was confused at the words that had just stumbled from his own mouth. Steve swallowed thickly, letting go of Bucky’s arms. He took a deep breath, steeling himself to say something he had never told anyone else, had never admitted out loud.

“You know I’ve barely slept a full night since they found me,” he said softly. Watery blue eyes flicked up to meet his, a question swimming in them. “I get nightmares too,” Steve admitted. “About what?” Bucky asked softly.

“Ice.”

“I know the feeling,” Bucky said softly. “You’ve never let me down, Buck,” Steve insisted. “Not even close.”

“I’ve killed so many people,” Bucky whispered again. “I almost killed you and I couldn't stop myself. I couldn’t make it stop.” A single tear escaped and coursed down his cheek. “That doesn't change anyt—,” Steve tried but he was interrupted once again.

“I killed Howard Stark.”

There it was. The core of this breakdown finally coming to light. Steve froze, whatever words of comfort he was going to try and offer drying up on his tongue. Bucky looked resigned, his jaw muscles twitching and eyes darting like he was expecting a hit. “I killed him,” Bucky continued painfully. “And I killed his wife. I killed her too and it was easy. It was so easy, Steve. I killed the man who made your shield.”

“I know,” Steve said softly.

Clearly, that was not what Bucky was expecting to hear. He started, head rearing back as he looked up at Steve, eyes wide and startled. “What?” he said softly. “Arnim Zola,” Steve began. Bucky’s whole body flinched at the mention of the name, his hands beginning to tremble. “He alluded to HYDRA’s involvement in the Starks’ death and with his connections to the Winter Soldier program, I put two and two together.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Steve said, reaching a hand to cup the back of Bucky’s neck. “Don’t you dare apologize for something that wasn’t your fault.” The look in Bucky’s eye told Steve he wanted to argue that point, but he didn’t say anything. On a whim, Steve pulled the other man into his arms. He felt Bucky go stiff and tense but he didn't let go until he felt the man relax, even if it was only a little.  

 

 

  
Brock was in the ICU, watching as they rolled Jack out from surgery, when he felt it. It was like vertigo, an off-balance thrum of…something, deep down in his chest. It was a feeling he’d gotten used to after these long months. Closing his eyes, he reached inside of himself to find that invisible thread that tied him to James, and sent a pulse of calming energy across it. He waited, and then the vertigo feeling shut off, going blank and empty and hollow. Like someone had ripped out a hole in his chest. He cursed under his breath. That wasn’t a good sign.

After leaving strict instructions to contact him if there was any change in Jack’s conditions, he beelined it back to the tower. He came face to face with tall, blonde, and righteous as soon as the elevator doors opened.

Of course Rogers had been the catalyst in this. There had been a growing tension there of late, something that James was bottling up inside and not allowing out. Something he had to deal with lest it start to consume him. Not that Brock was the poster child for healthy coping mechanisms, but he knew what he knew. And he knew that the two men and some shit to work out.

After making sure the man wasn’t going to leave, he hopped up the stairs two at a time. He found James on the ground, staring out at nothing. He took a breath and sat down beside the other man, letting their shoulders just brush together.

He didn’t say anything. He’d dealt with James in these catatonic states before. They usually happened when the man got so overwhelmed that he just shut down. Trying to pull him out of it had always ended in a fit of violence. So Brock waited.

Finally, James hitched a soft breath. Brock kept staring out over the city, but he slipped his hand over to gently cup the side of the other man’s knee. “I don’t want to talk about it,” James whispered hoarsely. “That’s okay,” Brock said softly. “You don’t need to talk to me, but I think you need to talk to Steve.” The man’s first name sounded strange on his tongue, but he knew it hit home as he felt James tense beside him.

James pulled back, leaning away from Brock’s shoulder but didn’t move to shove off his hand. Brock called that a win. “We talk,” James said defensively. Brock raised an eyebrow. James seemed to get the message and swallowed the rest of his words, staring down at his hands. “I wouldn’t know where to start,” he admitted softly. “There’s too much and I….I don’t know where to start.”

“How about the beginning?” Brock said. James huffed a breath, scrubbing a hand down his face. “He still here?” he asked quietly. “Yeah,” Brock affirmed, squeezing the other man’s knee in support. “Okay,” James breathed. “Okay.” He scratched a hand through his hair to get it out of his face, wincing a little as his fingers snagged on a couple knots.

“Here,” Brock offered, moving to sit on the bed behind James and slipping an elastic from around his wrist. He’d gotten into the habit of always having one on hand. “You need a haircut,” he teased as he finger combed the man’s dark locks back into a neat tail. “No,” James said shortly. The hair was a finicky subject Brock had learned. “I’m just saying,” Brock continued, tugging gently on the finished tail. “It’s getting pretty long.”

“I don’t know, it’s kinda growing on me,” James said with a shrug, glancing back over his shoulder at Brock. “That’s a terrible pun,” Brock groaned. “Is it?” James said, a small smile playing on his lips. Brock bent down, pressing his lips into the other man’s hair. “I’ll go get your boy.” A shadow passed over James’ face and he swallowed thickly. “I promise you, it’ll be fine,” Brock said gently, squeezing the man’s broad shoulder before making his way back downstairs.

Then, he waited. He made himself a cup of tea and put on some soup leftovers to heat. It had been his Nonna’s favourite and about the only good thing he could actually make from scratch. He perched at the kitchen counter, leafing through a book that Banner had left during his last visit.

Only once did he feel that spirally vertigo sensation and once again he reached inside himself, sending gentle support across the bond. This time he felt the man responding, could feel his breath even and his heart rate slow.

Eventually Brock heard footsteps echoed behind him. He turned, not really surprised to find a certain tall blonde man standing hesitantly a few paces away. “I…,” Steve stumbled. “Thank you,” he finally said, eyes bright and so sincere that it almost made Brock a little sick. Brock shrugged, deflecting. “Here to help, whether you believe it or not.”

Was it his imagination or did a small smile actually flicker across Rogers’ face?

“You know, I might actually be starting to believe it,” he said softly. Brock stared at him in mild shock. Part of his brain registered a soft hiss from upstairs that told him James was taking a shower, but the majority was focused blankly on Rogers’ last words. “You want some soup?” Brock said because what the fuck was he supposed to say.

James came down a while later, looking tired and wrung out and pointedly avoiding eye contact. He didn’t say much as he inhaled his bowl of soup. He didn’t say anything as Brock tidied up the kitchen and announced he was going for a shower, leaving the two men silently in the kitchen.

By the time he had changed and was making his way downstairs, Steve was beelining it for the elevators, phone pressed to his ear. “Avengers business,” James explained as he pulled a pan of cinnamon buns from the oven. “Look at you, acting all Martha Stewart,” Brock teased.

“They’re from a tube,” James said with a shrug, tossing the pan into the sink. “Nothing wrong with that,” Brock said, tearing a small piece from the closest one. “You know, I'm glad you two finally had a talk. I had a feeling that… James?” It took a moment for Brock to notice that James wasn’t moving, hands planted on either end of the sink as his head hung low. “Jamie?” Brock said gently, getting to his feet.

“I can’t do this,” James gasped, breath hitching. “Do what?” Brock asked in alarm as he crossed into the kitchen. “What are you talking about?” He couldn’t see the other man’s face, his long hair having long since pulled free from its elastic and hanging around his face. “He doesn’t see it. He refuses to see it,” James breathed. “See what?” Brock replied patiently, hands reaching up placatingly. “That I’m a monster,” James growled. “I tell him I murdered innocent people and he tells me it’s not my fault because all he can see is _him_.” His hands clenched, a horrific metallic shriek echoing across the room as the edge of the sink crumpled under his hand.

“Whoah, whoah, easy,” Brock soothed, sliding his foot back to plant them more solidly in case this went south. “I’m not _him_ ,” James cried. “I can’t be…I just…fuck!” The tile countertop snapped with a snap, hairline cracks splintering out from under James’ hand.

This was something else Brock was used to dealing with. Even back when James had been the Asset he’d been prone to mood swings, with uncontrollable rage springing out from nowhere. He noticed James often couldn't handle more than one emotion at a time. This anger had probably been brewing since his conversation with Steve, and it took until now to snap. He probably had been holding back until Steve left. “Hey, you’re not a monster. You hear me?” Brock said, reaching out a hand to James’ shoulder.

Wrong move.

Brock found himself slammed into the fridge, a hand around his throat and James’ face inches from his. His eyes were cold and hard and filled with uncontrolled anger. Brock swallowed thickly. Those weren’t James eyes. Those were Winter’s eyes. It felt strange thinking of the Asset’s nickname in their current situation. Brock hadn’t thought about those days in a long time. Brock choked as the hand around his throat constricted and began to slowly cut off his air.

“And how about now?” the man in front of him snarled. “What do you see now?”

“A survivor,” Brock gasped against the crushing hand on his windpipe. The pressure on his throat eased, just a little as James reared back an inch. “Takes a monster to know a monster,” he said roughly. “And believe me, you’re no monster.” A war began to wage within the other man’s eyes. “Bucky Barnes is dead,” James whispered, voice rough and broken. “He died falling from a train.” Brock frowned. Those words didn’t sound right. They sounded rehearsed. They sounded parroted. Then suddenly it made sense.

“And who told you that?” Brock said softly.

“Who told you that?” he insisted, leaning up against James’ hand. Uncertainty flooded into ice blue eyes and Brock knew he’d hit the nail on the head. “ _They_ did, didn’t they? Did they hold you down when they told you that? Did they hurt you? Hurt you until you finally said it back?” His words were choked off as grip around his throat tightened, pain and anger warring for dominance in the other man’s eyes.

Clarity and panic suddenly snapped into those eyes and then the hand around Brock’s throat was gone. He sucked in a rattling breath as James stumbled back a few steps. “I’m sorry,” the dark haired man gasped, eyes rolling wildly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he kept mumbling as he fell back against the kitchen island. He flinched as Brock took a step closer. Brock said nothing, moving slowly to pull the shaking man into his arms. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he murmured, drowning out James’ apologies with a mantra of his own.

Slowly, James stopped shaking. “Fuck,” he murmured into Brock’s shoulder. “I thought I was getting better.” Brock felt his heart splinter as he felt the echoes of James’ emotions across the bond. _Helplessness. Pain. Uselessness. Despair. Anger. Frustration. Panic._

“It’ll always be one step forward, two steps back,” Brock murmured, scratching his fingers gently against the other man’s skull. “Trust me, I know.” James just tucked his head more firmly against his shoulder. After a long moment, James sniffed loudly and pull away. His eyes were dry but red-rimmed as he scrubbed the back of his hand under his nose. “Hey,” Brock said, fingers sliding under the other man’s chin to tilt his head up. “You’re doing just fine, you hear me?” James nodded stiffly.

“Okay,” Brock said, running his hands up James’ arms. He always made a point not to shy away from touching the man’s metal arm, especially after an meltdown. “How about we curl up on the couch with those cinnamon buns and watch a movie or something, yah?”

James nodded, rubbing his eye with a clenched fist. It was such a child-like gesture that Brock couldn't help it but pull the man in for another hug, pressing his lips against the taller man’s temple. He settled man on the couch before putting a few cinnamon buns on a plate and making his way back across the room.

“What did you mean, takes a monster to know a monster?” James asked suddenly as Brock placed a plate of cinnamon buns on the coffee table in front of them. Brock froze, glancing up in alarm. James was watching him from his seat on the couch, eyes wary and sharp. Brock clamped down on his emotions, carefully sealing them away from the bond. The sad look in James’ eyes told him that the man had felt it and Brock swallowed thickly.

“They were just words. They didn’t mean anything,” he said with a forced smile. “Brock—,” the other man began but Brock cut him of swiftly. “James, just leave it,” he said, wincing at the hint of desperation the leaked into his voice. “Please,” he added softly because he couldn’t go there tonight. It was enough dealing with James’ self-loathing, he couldn't handle it if they started digging into his as well.

James didn’t reply, just stared at him with a look that felt like it could see straight into his core, but then he nodded. “Okay,” he said simply but Brock could tell the man wasn’t going to let it go permanently. He took a seat on the couch and snatched up the remote, avoiding eye contact. He cued up Fringe, tossing the remote back onto the table with a clatter.

The opening credits had barely begun to play when Brock felt James shift beside him. “Come here,” he heard the other man murmur and touch on his arm. Brock huffed but didn’t protest further as he leaned back and let James manhandle him. Eventually they got settled with Brock lying on his side, James tucked behind him against the back of the couch. Thank god for the massive couches otherwise there’d be no way the two of them would fit like that.

He felt James hesitate before settling his top arm stiffly along his side. Brock wasn’t having any of that. With exaggerated care he wrapped his hand around the cool metal wrist, and pulled the artificial arm around his waist. He kept his hand on James’ wrist, running his thumb gently along the side. It was a long time before James finally relaxed again, but he did. Brock could feel his breath tickling the back of his neck.

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he heard murmured softly behind him. He huffed a chuckle. “I think that’s my line,” he muttered, feeling James’ chest vibrate with silent laughter against his back. It was barely halfway through the episode before Brock could feel the change in James’ breathing as the man slowly fell asleep behind him. The amount of trust the other man put in him always astonished him.

For James to fall asleep so soundly around him, to trust him to watch his back when the man was at his most vulnerable…words weren’t enough to express the feeling at that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's such a short chapter but hopefully a good one. Some rough stuff coming to light and finally, just maybe, Brock and Steve coming to a truce?! As always, feedback is my fairy dust! Let me know if you're liking where this story is going xx


	17. He Walked Into My Heart

Brock crawled back into consciousness slowly, wincing as he felt his back twinge in protest at the uncomfortable angle he’d fallen asleep in. His right arm was pins and needles, trapped as it was underneath James’ neck. They’d never made it up to the bedroom. James had been worn out to the point past exhaustion after a trying session with Matt and Banner and had passed out hard. Brock hadn’t wanted to wake him, so he sacrificed his spine and did his best to get some sleep.

He blinked and then froze, staring at the slender red-head who was curled up like a cat in a nearby armchair. “Morning,” Natasha said softly, sliding a file under her blood-red nail with a soft scratching sound. “Uhhhh,” Brock said intelligently as his sleep-fogged brain tried to catch up with his eyes. “Morning?”

Natasha held her impeccably manicured hand out for inspection. Seemingly satisfied with whatever she saw, she tossed the nail file aside with a soft clatter. “Wake your boy,” she commanded as she gracefully unfolded herself from the chair. “We’re going for breakfast.”

And with that declaration she headed off into the kitchen. Brock blinked. What had just happened? A loud clunk echoed from behind them in the kitchen and he felt James flinch against him. His left arm flailed uncoordinatedly as he snapped back to reality. “Easy,” Brock murmured, wrapping an arm around the younger man’s waist to keep him from falling off the couch. “Ow,” he grumbled as the younger man’s elbow connected with the side of his head.

James rolled gracefully off the couch to his feet, balanced, tense, and very much awake. His stare wasn’t full Solider, as he’d had come to think of it, but it wasn’t fully James either. Brock on the other hand blinked and yawned as he sat up, wincing as his neck cracked. “You good?” he asked through another yawn. “Yeah,” James said with another blink, eyes clearing and fully focusing.

It was in that moment that Brock went blind, or more accurately his vision was obscured by something soft and made of fabric. He flailed, ripping off what seemed to be….a shirt? Jeans swiftly followed, and a moment later a rolled up pair of socks bounced off his forehead. He saw James roll his eyes and hold out his arms, into which a pile of clothes landed. Brock glared up at the loft where a shock of red hair disappeared from over the railing. “Ever heard of a little privacy?” he grumbled as the aforementioned redhead gracefully descended the stairs. Her only answer was a graceful shrug and orders to hurry up and put pants on.

 

  
Forty minutes later and James found himself shoved into a booth seat next to Brock at a little corner diner eight blocks from the tower. Natasha sat next to them, primly stirring a mammoth amount of sugar into her coffee. At least she and Brock had that in common. Conversation was stilted at best and nonexistent at worst, and James couldn't help the feeling that this was something more than just a friendly breakfast between friends. James wasn't even sure if he could consider the woman across from him his friend. He knew Brock certainly didn’t.

They ate in silence, James feeling Brock getting more and more agitated as time passed. The plates were cleared away, more coffee was ordered and finally James needed a break. He excused himself, slipping into the single stall bathroom around back. He splashed cold water on his face and took a breath. Being out in public made him twitchy and being out with Natasha didn’t help it. She put him on edge, the way she watched him; the way that he had this nagging feeling in the back of his head that they had some kind of history, something he still couldn't remember.

The floor suddenly lurched and fell out from under James’ feet as vertigo hit like a ton of bricks. Time slowed for a moment and then snapped back into real-time like an elastic band, awful emotions swirling uneasily. It was all centred at the core of himself, wrapped around that string that tied him to a certain man. And then it shut off, dropping to a black void like it had never been there. The wall was back up, shutting James and the world out.

James stifled the urge to punch the mirror in frustration. Instead he just sighed and made his way out of the bathroom. He slowed as he rounded the corner, their table coming into sight. Natasha looked as relaxed as ever, long nails strumming a beat against the side of her coffee mug. Brock, however, looked like he wanted to bolt. His shoulders and back were tense, hands held stiffly in front of him.

“So you need to get your shit together,” Natasha was saying softly. She didn’t sound angry, her voice was calm and even. Her eyes flicked up to James’ briefly before looking back to Brock. She raised her eyebrow an inch. “Think about what I said,” she added, sliding out of the booth as James approached. She placed a few folded bills on the table and left without another word.

“What was that about?” James asked. “Nothing,” Brock deflected as he tossed a few more bills on the table. “You sure?” James pressed quietly, not wanting to make a scene in public. “Because it sounded like—,”

“I said it was nothing,” Brock snapped as he shrugged his jacket on. “Let’s go.” He shouldered past James, eyes rooted to the floor as he headed out towards the door. James huffed, tossing a generous tip on top of what was already on the table before following Brock out.

 

 

"I'm gonna head down to the gym," Brock tossed over his shoulder as he strode up the stairs to change. His hands were practically shaking with pent up energy and tension. Romanoff always put him on edge, something hidden deep in her eyes saying she knew more than she was letting on, like she could see straight through him.

It wasn't like he was particularly complex. Hell, he was practically textbook; a hardened soldier with a rough childhood and countless skeletons hiding in the preverbal closet. A guy who made the wrong decisions for the wrong reasons and didn't care enough to try and do something about it. A guy who dealt with his demons by drinking and beating the shit out of heavy bags and sometimes people. A guy who couldn't fall asleep for seeing the faces of the people he'd killed, the people he'd gotten killed.

And she had called him out on every single fucking thing. It was like she was reading from a shopping list for issues. It felt like she hadn’t even blinked, just stared straight past all the bullshit and read him like a fucking book. And Brock had to just sit there and take it.

"You want company?" he heard James ask as he trailed behind him. "Naw, it's all good. You have your shrink session, anyways." Brock brushed off as he pulled sweatpants up over his hips, keeping his back to the younger man. "I'm fine," he said, answering the silent question he could see lurking in James's eyes. "What did Natasha say while I was in the bathroom?" The taller man asked bluntly, hitting the nail on the head as always. "I said I'm fine," Brock said flatly. James clearly didn't believe him, holding Brock's gaze for a long time before finally looking away, shoulders slumping ever so slightly. "Okay," he murmured as he brushed past Brock into the bathroom.

Brock bite back a curse and pushed back against the brief reflex to follow James and apologize, to confess to every single fear and doubt lurking in his fucked up head but he didn't. He walked down the stairs and into the elevator without a word. "If I may, Sir," Jarvis said tentatively as the elevator doors slide shut. "You fuckin’ may not," Brock growled, breathing harshly through his nose. The AI wisely didn't say anything else but Brock could feel as if it was silently judging him. Just what he needed.

  
Brock wrapped his wrists quickly and slipped on sparring gloves before attacking the heavy bag in the corner. He let his mind go quiet, focusing on nothing but his hands and the leather in front of him. The chains creaked overhead as the bag shook. As his muscles warmed up, he grew faster, striking with more force. He began added footwork, a knee, a side kick. With a grunt, he sent the bag swinging wildly with a vicious hook kick.

"Impressive."

He turned, wiping sweat from his eyes, to find Steve lingering by the door. They locked eyes, Brock trying to get a read on the blonde man out of time but finding his gaze smooth and calm and giving nothing away. "I'll get out of your hair," Brock said stiffly, stepping off the mats as he began to unwind his gloves. He was barely warm but wasn't in the mood to deal with judgemental eyes boring holes in his back.

"Thought you might like a sparring partner," Steve said casually, leaning against the doorframe, the picture of ease. Brock's hands froze mid-unwrapping and his eyes snapped up. "Why?" he blurted out. Steve just shrugged, a small smile that didn't reach his eyes playing on his lips. "Been a while since I've had someone who could keep up, for the most part anyways," he said innocently enough. Brock didn't believe him. “You and James don’t spar?” He asked, already knowing the answer. “No,” Steve replied, shadows in his eyes. “No, we don’t.”

"What's the catch?" he said suspiciously. Steve huffed, the first cracks appearing through the calm control. "I'm trying, okay?" he snapped, then grimaced as he reigned the anger in. "I don't like you," the blonde said stiffly, clearly holding back the rest of what he thought about the former HYDRA agent. "But I'm trying. This is me trying."

The silent _'For Bucky'_ hung in the air between them.

"Okay," Brock said finally, because if Captain America was going to try, the least Brock could do was try and beat the shit out of the guy. _For Bucky._

 

  
"I feel....stuck," James sighed, looking up at the slim woman who had replaced Matt with reservation. He'd had a few sessions with her now and he thought he liked her. She had a calm eye with a gaze that seemed to see straight through him, no matter if he answered he questions or not. He also discovered that when she said "Take your time answering," she really meant it. Their first session had been spent sitting in silence for twenty minutes while he wrestled with himself.

"Stuck in what way?" Dr. Lynn said gently, her soft voice not jarring him out of his train of thought like Matt's used to. "It's like every time I feel like I'm making progress, I backslide. Like every step forward is another two back." James paused, swallowing thickly. "Does this have anything to do with Brock?" she asked shrewdly. James huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "No," he said on reflex and then grimaced. "Yes," he amended. "Maybe. I don't know. Probably. Fuck." With a groan, he let his head flop back against the comfy chair. "I just feel like he's shutting me out. It's...," he trailed off, swallowing thickly as he got lost in his own head, as the memories threatened to creep up his throat and choke him

 

The air crashed from Brock's lungs as he crashed into the mats. Again. "Come on, this the best you got?" Rogers baited, not even sweating. Brock ideally wondered if the man even could sweat anymore. "Or can't you fight without a handicap?" Brock's brain connected handicap and Cap and he had to stifle a manic giggle. He'd probably hit his head one too many times on the mats. "You can't still be mad about the elevator," Brock groaned as he got to his feet. "I told you, Cap, it wasn’t—,"

"Personal, yeah I remember," Cap drawled. "Still felt kinda personal."

"It was survival," Brock said flatly. "At another's expense," Rogers started and then snapped his jaw shut, clearly stopping himself again from saying everything he was thinking. Brock bristled, shaking out his aching wrists. "We gonna talk all day or we gonna fight?" he growled.

 

James stared at the thread that held the arm of the comfy armchair together. The neat row of stitches. The minute fraying of the fabric, well worn with use. Flashes of images and sounds flickered through his mind, memories surfacing and disappearing like waves.

_A gentle breath on the back of his neck. A steadying hand on his arm, his shoulder. A subtle tap against his wrist, asking if he's good to go. Fingers sliding buckles home and yanking on straps. The warmth of a body sprawled out next to him, tanned skin flushed red. Lying hip to hip with that same body on rough ground, squinting through a rifle scope while listening to a rough voice murmur distances and ratios in his ear._

_Metal fingers closing around wrists, around throats, fisting in hair. Hands bringing pleasure. Hands bringing pain. Pleasure and pain permanently tangling together. Sparks fizzing under his skin in ecstasy. Burning through skin, leaving holes. The sticky smell of it coating the inside of his throat. The screams clawing at his ears. Bright blue eyes meeting flint brown. The breath being punched from lungs. A fist punching the air from his lungs._

_"You will be the new Fist of HYDRA."_

_Fists punching through walls, through red. Red on metal. Seeing stars. Blood red stars. Blood red stains across metal stars._

_Cold. So cold._

_Ice frosting over. A skinny guy who could never get warm. Never be warm again. Ice running through his veins, freezing his lungs and throat and eyes. Blue frost glassing over everything. Falling. Falling through ice._

_Falling, falling, falling. Knees cracking on cement. Hands as hot as branding irons catching him. Holding him. Shivering in strong arms. Hands brushing frozen hair gently aside._

_Always so gentle._

_Fear._

_Paralyzingly fear. Painful fear. Fear of freezing. Fear of losing. Fearing that void he never knew had always been there, pressed up against the backside of his ribcage. The void that had been filled and yet kept empty still._

Even know, if he looked into himself he found a blank wall where the feeling of someone else should be. It was like the thread that tied them together just disappeared into a dense fog and no matter how much he searched, he couldn't find anything other than darkness. What made it worse was that it wasn't always like that. In quiet moments, early mornings and late nights, bad drunken days and when one of them was shivering in post nightmare trauma, that void filled with warmth. It was like the sun coming out on a rainy day and burning away that confusing fog. Everything would become clear and peaceful.

"There are moments," he said softly, almost like he was talking to himself. "When it's genuine, when it's real. No lies or walls or pretences. It's the only time I actually feel...." He didn't say human, couldn't say it. "And then it's over," he said instead. "I can feel the walls slam shut again and....and it..." he trailed off, grasping at the words to try and express whatever tangled mess that this relationship was.

 

With a low growl, Brock actually managed to get up under Rogers' guard, his foot lashing out to catch the taller man just under his chin. The man tumbled back, nearly falling but catching himself at the last minute. Brock sucked in air in huge gasps, feeling the sweat tricking down his back and making his shirt stick to his skin. His ribs protested the action and he knew that morning would show some wicked bruising. He tasted copper and wiped at the blood he could feel dripping down his chin.

"Just ask," he gasped as he braced his trembling arms on his hips. He was so done with whatever question that the blonde was clearly burning to ask. "What?" Rogers startled, seeming to be genuinely caught off guard. "I don't know," Brock said, exasperated. He was tired and sweaty and in no mood for this bullshit. It was also so unfair that the other man was just barely beginning to sweat. "But there's obviously something so just fucking ask!"

"Fine!" Rogers snapped, eyes sparking hot. "Why?" he growled. Brock rolled his eyes. "Well, that's fucking specific," he scoffed. "Why what?"

"Why any of it?" Rogers snarled, taking an aggressive step forward. "Why join HYDRA in the first place, if I'm supposed to believe you're such a good person." Brock huffed a chuckle. "Ah, news flash Cap, there's no such thing as a good person," he drawled as he threw his hands up in the air. "There's just people and sometimes people fuck up."

"So you expect me to believe that you just _fucked up_?" Rogers said with narrow eyes. It sounded weird, almost blasphemous, hearing someone like Captain America swear. "You think I knew what they were when I joined up?" Brock snapped. "They weren't Nazis anymore. They lost the fucking war! You think that was good for their PR? They rebranded; a new organization risen from the ashes of the old-,"

"Fine," Rogers interrupted, hands clenched into fists by his sides and radiating barely controlled rage. Brock had never known Cap had such a temper. In the field he'd always been so level headed. "Say I believe you. Why stay?" The living legend hissed through clenched teeth. "Once you knew what HYDRA was, why didn't you walk?" This time Brock really laughed. He laughed in Rogers' face, a deep throaty guffaw that only sounded a little forced.

"It's not a fucking garden party that you can just walk away from when the drunk uncle starts ranting about racial purity," he snarled. Rogers smiled, a grin thin line that held no genuine amusement, more like his assumptions had just been confirmed. "So you're just such a coward then," he bit out.

_You have no idea._

The dual meaning of those words warred in Brock's head, the less poisonous version winning out. He swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling very cold. Rogers really had no idea what he was talking about. He thought he did but he didn't. He knew only what HYDRA was on the surface, what HYDRA had been when they'd been bold as brass and not hiding in the shadows. He couldn't fathom how deep their poison reached, how far they would go to insure absolute loyalty, absolute control.

"You think they just come after you?" he hissed. "They don't just kill you," he continued relentlessly, seeing the first signs of doubt creep into the other man's eyes. "They kill your family, your friends, your fucking mailman, anyone you've ever had contact with. And they make you watch. _Then_ they kill you, slowly."

The silence that followed his words was louder and more painful that when Cap had cracked his fist across Brock's jaw. Rogers stared at him for a long time, calculating. "Sounds like you speak from experience," he said stiffly, keeping his tone flat and even in a way that didn't match the painful look in his eyes. "Yeah," Brock sneers, masking the gut churning pain behind a thrum of anger. "They always made a point of putting the rookies on the clean up crews. Scare tactics. Good way to insure loyalty." His jaw ached as he clenched his jaw, stopping the rest of the horrors from spilling out between his teeth. He flushed, embarrassed he’d revealed that much to Captain fucking America of all people. Rogers just stared at him, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. He stared so long that Brock began to twitch under the scrutiny.

"Does Bucky know?" Rogers suddenly blurted out. The question startled Brock and he just blinked dumbly at the man. Why would he ever think to burden James with his own issues when the man already had so fucking many rattling around in his head? "No," Brock admitted in surprise before he could stop himself. Rogers nodded, eyes glazing over in thought. "Maybe it's time he did," he said softly. Before Brock could even begin to process this sudden turn of events, Rogers had turned heel and was walking out of the gym.

 

"Have you told Brock any of this?" Dr. Lynn asked, gracefully taking her glasses off her nose and letting them hang around her neck on it's beaded string. "No," James admitted with a sharp swallow. She gave him a knowing look. "Too many people think that a souls bond should be the ultimate goal," she explained. "A fantasy to strive for. That any other type of romance pales in comparison. That there will be no strife, no agreements, no pain once you've found your perfect partner. It's not that simple or that easy. In many ways it's harder."

  
She paused, taking one of her long measured looks at him. It wasn't the one that made James figit, it was the one that simple seemed like she was about to tell him something he already knew but just didn't want to see. “Maybe it's time you told him," Dr. Lynn said simply. James huffed, chewing on the inside of his lip. "Yeah," he said softly. "Maybe you're right."

 

 

Brock bit back a groan as the elevator doors opened and he stumbled out into the apartment. Everything had started to ache, bruises throbbing and joints aching. Fuck, he should have known better. He was getting too old for this shit. What he really wanted now was a long hot shower and something hard to drink.

The elevator doors opened, revealing James sitting at the kitchen island, a StarkPad in front of him. Brock hesitated. He knew James knew he was there but made no move to acknowledge his presence. Brock took a step towards the stairs, intent on losing his soaked clothes and washing the blood and sweat off him, when something yanked him back. It wasn't a physical touch but it might as well have been. Brock fully stumbled backwards, his hip catching on the kitchen island. He clapped a hand to his chest, where he felt a hollow pressure, like a string had wrapped itself around his ribs and pulled.

A string that traced right back to the man who sat staring out the window.

"Neat trick," Brock gasped accusingly, rubbing his hand against his chest uncomfortably as the pressure disappeared. "Isn't it?" James mused, not even glancing towards the older man. "Any more I should know about?” he griped.

"You'd know if you bothered to look," James said, implying the bond that existed between them. He said it mildly, tony more observatory than accusing but it stung nonetheless. "That's not fair," Brock whispered harshly, knowing that the other man would hear him. James didn't say anything, still didn't at him, but Brock felt a tugging sensation under his ribs. It was gentle but insistent. Brock huffed but the sensation didn't go away and he finally relented.

He crossed into the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. He downed half of it as James' eyes flicked over him. "You look like shit," he commented, in that same calm and toneless voice. "Sparred with your boy Rogers," Brock answered stiffly. James' eyebrows twitched every so slightly. "Looks more like he just used you as a punching bag." Brock huffed a humourless chuckle, swallowing down an ugly prickly feeling that was taking up residence in his throat. "Well, sparring with Rogers is basically being a punching bag," he snarked.

He watched James' throat bob smoothly as the younger man swallowed. A heavy silence settled over the apartment. It lasted for so long that Brock actually felt the sun shift against the polarized windows, so long that the blood smeared on his cuff had dried to an almost sickly black. It lasted so long that when James finally spoke, Brock physically flinched at the sound.

"I asked before when you were gonna stop running," he said softly and Brock couldn't help but flinch again. So they were having this kind of conversation. “And you never answered me.” James asked bluntly. Brock flushed and started to bluster some kind of response to which he was swiftly interrupted. "I don't want your excuses," James stated, voice still so calm and soft even as his eyes grew stormy. "Jesus Christ,” Brock bristled, planting his hands on the counter and staring boldly across at the other man. "What do you want me to say here?"

“Anything! Anything but just talk to me," James said, eyes pleaded. "Really talk to me,” he insisted before Brock had a chance to argue that they did talk. “Even after everything that's happened, I I barely know you. Keep it simple if you don’t know where to start. Where did you grow up? Why did you join the military? What is your favourite colour for Christ's sake—,”

Brock snorted rudely, cutting across the younger man's words. "I grew up on the corner of welfare and the foster system," he snapped. "I joined the military because it was the only way out and don't you fucking dare look at me like that," he ended with a snarl as James' eyes grew sad and far too understanding. "And you're one to talk," he accused, stabbing a finger towards the other's chest. "How ‘bout you fucking start?"

James grew quiet and Brock could actually see the man begin to retreat into himself. It was a defence mechanism that the soldier had used often. Whenever something went wrong or Pierce gave him a lecture, the kid pulled walls around himself. It was subtle; the softening of the shoulders into a slight slump, the distant glazed look in the eyes, the tension rippling along the jaw. Already a man of few words, when James fell into that state it would be hours before he'd talk about. So Brock was rightfully surprised when the man spoke, voice hushed and sad-sounding.

"You think you know me but you don't," James said softly as he looked out over the city. "I was kept by HYDRA for longer than you've been alive. What you know about me, about what I've done, what was done to me, barely scratches the surface." Brock didn't know what to say to that. There wasn't anything really to say. He couldn't deny it because it was true.

"The reason I haven't told you everything," James continued. "Is because I'm afraid that once I start, I won't be able to stop. And I'm not ready for you to know everything when I can barely make sense of it myself." Bright blue eyes finally lifted to meet Brock's, the brilliance of the colour never failing to take his breath away. "But I will tell you. When I'm ready, I'll tell you everything."

Those eyes seemed to punch the air from Brock's lungs more painfully than any of the times Roger's had dumped him on the mats. "What's your excuse?" James murmured, unblinkingly staring straight into Brock's core. He felt his mouth hinge open and close uselessly as no sound came out. James waited and then finally huffed a sigh. A soft echo of reserved disappointment echoed through Brock's heart as James got to his feet. "That's what I thought," the man said sadly as he crossed out towards the elevators.

And Brock didn’t stop him.

As soon as the elevators closed, he regretted it. “Fuck,” he breathed as he raced to the other elevators. Jarvis said nothing and asked nothing. He simply made the elevator move. And when the doors opened there was someone waiting on the other side, but it wasn’t a tall muscular man with long hair and icy ices that stared back at him in surprise. It was a slim short woman with dark hair and glasses hanging on a beaded string around his neck. Brock blinked. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Dr. Lynn said simply, a knowing look in her eyes. He opened his mouth to say no but “Yes,” came out instead.

She led him back into a pleasant living room-esc space, with a small kitchenette in one corner. She hadn’t even blinked at his rumpled state, at the bruises and bloodstains. “I don’t mean to intrude,” he began as he watched her shrug off her bag and coat and put the kettle on. “It’s perfectly fine,” she said with an easy smile as she took down two mugs. “Have a seat.”

Brock glanced around at the lush couches and armchairs and then down at himself. He took in the sweat and the bloodstains and flushed. “I should go, I…,” he started, trailing off. “Have a seat,” Dr. Lynn said again as she pressed a steaming mug into his hands. “So, it’s been a long time since last we saw each other,” she said, settling into the chair across from him as if they were just old friends catching up over coffee. “How have you been?”

Brock huffed a breath, something that caught between a chuckle and a sob. He stared down at the mug in his hands, inhaling the subtle hints of jasmine and honey. “It’s a long story,” he admitted. “We have time,” said the woman who had seen him at his absolute lowest, who had helped him put himself back together the last time he fell apart.

 

  
It was evening by the time Brock headed back up to the apartment. This time it was empty. Brock slumped down at the kitchen counter and waited.

The sun was beginning to set, throwing long shadows across the floor, by the time James stepped out of the elevator. Brock felt more than saw the man freeze upon seeing him. The younger man said nothing, his jaw set with a stoney look in his eye as he passed Brock.

Cold metal met his fingers as Brock caught James' wrist in his hand. The touch was so gentle, so tentative that a child could have broken free of the hold and yet it stopped the super soldier dead in his tracks. "It's not fair," Brock whispered and he felt James bristle under his touch, the plates in the metal arm shifting with a soft whir. He felt the man start to pull away and tightened his grip. He knew that if James wanted to leave, there wasn't anything he could do to stop the former assassin, but he felt the man pause.

"It's not fair," he started again. "That you should have to deal with my shit on top of everything else."

A pause. Then slowly, he felt James' hand shift, twisting around to clasp his wrist in return. ”How about you let me decide what I can and can't deal with?" James murmured. Clear ice-blue eyes caught flint brown and held. Brock's breath caught in his throats and he found that he couldn't look away. He was drowning in those eyes and he was completely fine with it. Okay," Brock breathed, holding onto the man's artificial hand like a lifeline and wondering what he had ever done to deserve this many chances.

They talked long into the night, or more accurately Brock talked. One he started, it was like the floodgate opened and he just couldn't stop. He talked until the lights of the city were the only light source, as Jarvis slowly brought up the apartment lights to a dull glimmer so they wouldn't be sitting in total darkness. He talked until his throat was dry and parched and his words began to crack. James left his side only once, to get him a glass of water.

He told him everything. He told him about his shitty childhood with a mother who died before he could remember and a father who drank too much. He told him about lying about his age on his enlistment forms and actually getting away with it. He told him about his service, about Matt, about being outed and leaving the military. He told him about Jack and Cambodia and Sudan, how he had been recruited by HYDRA and then by SHIELD. He told him about the cleanup crews and the rookie initiations. He talked until he ran out of things to talk about and then kept talking. He talked about everything he’d kept bottled up inside for far too long now, things that were now refusing to be left unheard.

The more he talked, the more memories resurfaced and reordered themselves properly, filling in the gaps as seamlessly as if they'd never been missing. The more the horrors spilled off his tongue, the calmer Brock felt. It didn’t feel like he was teetering on the edge of losing self control, like it had earlier with Dr. Lynn. He felt grounded. It was a slow sensation, one he didn't even notice until the soft warmth of dawn started glowing behind the buildings outside. The words slowly dried up on his tongue and he couldn't think of anything else to say.

“Shit,” he said, rubbing grit from his eyes with a knuckle then wincing as the bruised skin protested. “Sorry, I didn’t even—,” his words trailed off as his throat closed up and he swallowed painfully. A gentle hand took his and tugged. “Come on,” James murmured. Brock let himself he led upstairs, not even protesting as James literally pulled the clothes off his body and pushed him into the shower.

He stood under the warm spray, watching the water spiral pink down the drain. He realized that James had left without him realizing and that was exactly how drained he was. After all the sweat and blood was washed away, he fumbled with numb hands and turned off the water. Brock glanced at himself in the mirror and winced. Bruises scattered across his torso and bloomed across his jaw. His knuckles were buried and split and angry looking. He yanked on the sweatpants that were neatly folded on the counter, finding them a little too long.

The door clicked softly open and a warm hand spread something cool across those bruises, dapping them across sore knuckles. A shirt was tugged over the sweet smelling cream and Brock let himself be led like a child out of the bathroom, into bed and into a pair of warm and waiting arms.

 

  
It wasn’t until later that James really realized exactly what had happened that night. As Jarvis drew the blinds against the ever brightening sun, James found himself tucked up under Brock’s chin with his metal arm wrapped firmly around the man’s torso. Brock’s mental and emotional walls, while still tired, were back up and ready to fend off the world. James could feel them but this time it was different. This time he was on the inside of those walls.

A warm feeling settled under his ribs and James could only think of one word for it; belonging. Brock had laid himself bare and vulnerable to the former HYDRA assassin. James couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips as gentle fingers combed through his hair, brushing it back from his face. His eyes drooped as blunt fingernails scratched gently against his scalp.

Just as he was drifting off, as sleep drew him down into unconsciousness, he heard three words, whispered softly into his hair.

 

 

James woke to gritty eyes and an empty bed. He saw up with a groan, blinking around the room. The clock beside the bed proudly proclaimed it to be eight twenty and James could just make out the warm light from the setting sun illuminating the downstairs. He yawned, wincing as his jaw cracked. His stomach protested loudly, reminding him that he’d stayed up all night and then slept all day and hadn't eaten since lunch the day before.

He padded downstairs, slowing as he saw a figure sitting hunched over the kitchen counter, silhouetted against the windows. “Morning,” he said with a yawn as he crossed into the kitchen. Brock glanced up, his hair soft and damp from a shower, unruly and un-styled. “Hey,” he said softly, hands curled around a mug of tea.

“How long have you been up?” James asked as he rummaged around in the fridge. “Couple hours,” Brock said softly with a shrug, his broad shoulders rippling under the hoody he was wearing. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

“You hungry?” James asked, closing the fridge with a sigh and reaching to shuffle through the stack of takeout menus. “Starving,” the older man replied. “Thai or Indian?” James asked, holding up a menu in each hand. “Thai,” Brock replied, chuckling softly as James tossed the dismissed menu blindly over his shoulder. “Usual?” he asked, a knowing look in his eye. Brock just smiled. “Jarvis?”

“Right away, sir,” the AI replied promptly. James rounded the counter, latching a hand on the front of Brock’s hoody as he went. Weak protests aside, Brock let James drag him over to the couch and carefully tackle him onto it. After a bit of adjustment, they found themselves comfortably situated with James head in Brock’s lap and re-runs of Buffy playing on the TV.

His fingers worried at the rip in Brock’s sweats, picking at the loose strings that frayed around the edges. “Stop it,” Brock snapped not unkindly, slapping his hand away. James chuckled. “Wanna beer?” He asked, feeling Brock’s chest rumble with an assertive murmur. James rolled soothly to his feet and then paused. Now’s as good a time as any, he supposed. Taking a breath, he braced a hand on the back of the couch and leaned into Brock’s space.

The older man looked up, startled. His scruff rasped against James’ fingers as he cupped Brock’s chin, tilting the man’s face up to meet his. He pressed the softest of kisses against the man’s lips.

“I love you too,” he murmured.

Brock physically jumped, jerking back with wide rolling eyes. “I…,” he started, the words trailing off even as his mouth kept moving. Clearly, he had thought James didn’t hear him before, or had even been awake to hear him. James smirked, amused that he somehow managed to still catch the man off guard. This only caused Brock to get more agitated, a hint of panic creeping into the corners of his eyes as a flush burned up his neck.

He was saved by Jarvis calmly informing them that their food had arrived. James chuckled softly as he pulled away from the flustered man and crossed to the elevator. Upon returning to the kitchen, James found the bag ripped from his hands before he was bodily shoved up against the fridge. His back connected with a hollow thunk as a solid mass of muscle pressed itself up against him and lips greedily sought his.

“I meant it,” Brock mumbled against his lips, a hand reaching up to cup the side of the taller man’s face. “I know,” James replied before surging forward to catch Brock’s lips again with his own. The hand cupping his cheek slide to fist itself in his hair and the food lay forgotten on the floor for the rest of the evening.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter has been a long time coming and I apologize for it. Hopefully this was worth the wait! Feedback is my fairy dust as always! xx


	18. Hell Is Empty, The Devils Are Here

“It looks so different,” James said softly as the two of them wandered past rustic looking brick buildings as the air echoed with car horns and shouting and the general bustle of Brooklyn. Brock hummed, agreeing even though he couldn't really understand. He hadn’t really been surprised when James had blurted out over breakfast that he wanted to see his old home. He had been a little surprised he’d asked Brock instead of Steve. When asked, James just muttered something about that being ‘too much’ and changed the subject.

Brock zipped his jacket further up his neck and shrugged against the wind that snuck down the back of his collar. It took him a minute to realize that James was no long in step with him. He spun on his heels, finding the other man staring across the street. “It’s still here,” James murmured as Brock stepped up beside him. Brock looked across to the neat row of buildings that boasted a cafe and a florist.

“It used to be a pharmacy,” James explained. “I broke in when I was nine to steal meds for Steve’s ma.”

“Did you get caught?” Brock asked, tucking his hands into his pockets to warm them. “Not that time,” James said with a twitch of a smirk. He huffed a sigh, looking down the street in an almost wistful fashion. “Our old apartment was only six blocks down,” he commented, pointing with a gloved hand. “Wanna go check it out?” Brock murmured, brushing shoulders briefly with the taller man. James’ lips tugged into a shy smile. “Come on,” Brock drawled, grabbing the man’s lapels as he started down the street.

 

  
“I’m sorry,” Brock said as the two of them stared up at sleek glass and concrete. “It’s fine,” James said quietly. “I didn’t really expect it to still be here. It was practically falling apart when Steve and I lived there. Just thought maybe…” He shrugged, seemingly to mentally shake himself from the nostalgia. “You hungry?” he said, clearing steering the conversation to something safer. “Saw a diner about a block back. Sign says they bake their own pie.”

“Can’t say no to pie,” Brock said simply.

“Jesus,” he muttered about half an hour later as he watched the younger man inhale his fourth piece of pie. “Where do you put it all?” James didn’t even stop eating to answer. He simply rapped his knuckles against the steel edge of the table, which clinked as metal met metal. Brock just chuckled into his coffee.

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and he scanned the diner out of habit, clocking the exits and calculating potential threats. He wasn’t sure what got his hackles up. An elderly couple sat in the far booth, sharing a piece of cobbler while they sat on the same side like teenagers. A young father with two young children were at the booth beyond that. A couple of construction workers sat at the bar, with another two men in suits on the opposite end.

He felt James’ eyes on him, felt the man tense in reaction. “Nothing,” Brock murmured in reassurance, answering the question in James’ eyes. “It’s nothing,” he said again, more to calm his own nerves than to settle James. There was nothing here to be worried about. Brock was just being paranoid.

 

  
“So I was thinking,” James started before trailing off as they walked back through Brooklyn. Brock waited but James said nothing more, just chewing on his lip like he did when he was stopping himself from saying something. “I do that sometimes too,” Brock muttered, finding his eyes clocking a black SUV that passed by them just a touch too slowly. Try as he might he couldn't shake this uneasy feeling.

“I’m getting…bored, I guess,” James sighed, shrugging as he tucked his hands into his pockets. “I don’t have anything to do these days. I feel…useless.” Brock grimaced in understanding. “I feel yah,” he murmured. “I was wondering if you’d consider….,” the former assassin trailed off again. “Just spit it out, kid,” Brock grumbled, even as his eyes scanned the road. “I just—,” was all James got out before Brock suddenly found himself grabbed and yanked into a nearby alley. The rough brick rasped against Brock’s jacket as his back hit the wall, James’ hands clasped almost painfully tight around his biceps.

James looked grim as he reached up and yanked a slender dart out of the sleeve of Brock’s arm. The leather was too thick for the dart to have penetrated Brock’s skin or else he would be out on his ass. Cold eyes met Brock’s as James shifted into soldier mode before him. “Jarvis, we have a situation,” he said calmly as he handed Brock a gun, produced from somewhere hidden on his person. Brock just raised his eyebrows as he checked the clip.

“Stark installed comms,” James explained with a gesture to his prosthetic before suddenly flinching and shoving them both further into the alley. “Shit,” Brock spat as the other man pulled a dart from his flash arm. He didn’t have the protection of leather like Brock did, and the dart had gone clean through his light hoody.

“Easy kid,” he soothed as James shook his head rapidly. Before Brock could blink, James had snatched a second dart out of the air before it could hit home and yanked Brock behind a dumpster as the sounds of boots hitting pavement echoed behind them. “Six on the left, four on the right,” James said without even looking. “You good?” Brock said, watching as James blinked rapidly. “I’m fine,” came the curt reply. “It’s gonna take a lot more than a horse tranq to take me down,” he said with a rakish smile before leaning around the side of the dumpster to fire at their attackers. Three shots were closely followed by heavy thuds and panicked voices. “Four on the left, three on the right,” James said with that crooked smirk of his.

He tossed Brock a wink before throwing himself into the fray. Brock allowed himself only a moment of surprise at how James’ had managed to retain his sense of self and not letting himself be lost in soldier mode at the first sign of combat, before following close on the man’s heels.

God, he loved watching James fight. The man was a living weapon, graceful and absolutely deadly as he lashed out with boot and fist and knife. He gave no quarter, had no mercy as he ruthlessly took out the would-be assassins with lethal efficiency. Brock really had nothing to do, besides taking out one man who thought to try and sneak up on James’ back while the man was locked in a grappling episode with an attacker twice his size. Unfortunately that only lasted for a minute.

Brock’s only warning was the soft click of an emergency door opening behind him and only years of well-honed reflexes saved him from having his kneecap shattered. As it was, the heavy boot of his attacker struck his calf and he was forced down to one knee. He grunted as bone cracked against hard ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw James spin towards him, the last attacker falling lifeless from his arms. The former assassin was only distracted for a millisecond but it was enough. Even as Brock yanked his attacked over his shoulder, putting him down with a swift pistol-whip to the temple, he saw James jerk twice and then sway dizzyingly.

“James!”

Glazed eyes met Brock’s panicked ones and then hands were on Brock. He kicked out with his uninjured leg as he lashed behind him with a knife he’d had hidden in his boot. A gurgled cry and Brock felt something hot and wet splash against his hand. His gun recoiled in his hand as he brought down two more men that were rounding the corner of the alley as James struggled to get to his feet.

Brock ducked as a mammoth of a man swung wildly at his face with a growl. He brought the man down with a few well placed kicks and a bullet to the back of the head. He spun on his heels in time to see James collapse to his elbows, four more darts imbedded in his back.

He sprinted towards the former assassin as a dozen more men sprinted into the alley, weapons drawn. Brock was just bringing up his weapon, dropping into a defensive crouch near James when pain exploded across the side of his head. Red bloomed across his vision and then everything slammed into black.

 

 

  
James’ vision swam as he fell dizzying to his knees. One moment of distraction was all it took for whatever sniper they had to pepper his back with tranquilizer darts. He grimaced, shaking his head to try and clear the awful swimming sensation that rushed through his head. Vertigo hit him hard and he felt himself pitching forward, only just catching himself before his face smashed could into the ground. His eyes felt heavy and it felt like he was floating inside his own body.

"James!"

He was struggling just to keep his head up when he saw Brock cooly dispatch his attackers before making his way towards him, eyes hard. James’ enhanced senses were an advantage, allowing him to see, hear, and react faster than the ordinary human. Sometimes they were more of a burden.

He heard the shot first, a soft and familiar sound he had heard so often before and after he fell from the train. He knew it as well as his own name, knew what the recoil felt like against his shoulder. The impact hit not a second later but it felt like hours. James felt it like a blow to his own chest and he could only watch in numb horror as Brock’s head snapped to the side as a burst of red bloomed from his temple.

A cry lodged painfully in his throat as James watched Brock crumple, gun skittering from his fingers as he collapsed mere feet away. His vision tunnelled and while part of his brain registered the pounding feet behind him, James only had eyes for the body lying motionless in front of him. He could only watch as a growing pool of blood seeped out from under Brock’s head.

_No, no, no, no!_

James searched desperately for that spark of warmth inside him, that thread that tied him to the man in front of him because Brock couldn’t be dead. Brock couldn’t die like this. This wasn’t how it was meant to be but try as he might, James couldn’t find that thread. Whenever he thought he’d found it, the sensation just slipped through his fingers. It was like trying to hold onto light.

His vision blurred and it wasn’t from the drugs that were slowly taking away control of his body. He reached out desperately, fingers just barely brushing Brock’s sleeve before rough hands were grabbing him and pulling him away. Rage flooded through him like a wave, clearing his head a little. He got a hold of a limb and twisted until he felt something snap and heard someone scream.

He managed to bring down two more before a punch to the jaw got through his guard and sent him reeling. It was all it took and suddenly hands were pinning him roughly to the ground. He writhed and fought hard, landing more than a few blows but then something clamped down on his left wrist and his entire arm turned into dead weight.

A sharp pain stabbed at his neck and he thrashed with a guttural snarl. A hand fisted into his long hair, keeping him still as something cold flooded through his veins. Spots danced as his vision swam and darkness crept into his peripheral vision. His mouth tasted fuzzy and he felt his muscles relax against his will. Brock’s name lodged in his throat as his body finally gave up and he floated into nothingness.

 

 

 

James reluctantly crawled back into consciousness to harsh muttering voices. His eyelids felt heavy and sticky. He moved to sit up and came awake all at once as he felt his arm movement to be restricted. Panic thrummed hotly through his chest as he found himself strapped down to a painfully familiar feeling chair. Thick bands wrapped around his arms from wrist to shoulder, that strange cuff still rendering his prosthetic arm useless.

“Ah good, you are awake.”

James’ eyes snapped up to the smug face of a stranger. Short military haircut, crisp suit, posture stinking of arrogance and superiority. He wasn’t _HYDRA_. Something about him wasn’t the type. He wasn’t _SHIELD_ either. Then his foggy brain suddenly realized that the man hadn’t spoken English. “What do you want?” he growled back in Russian. The man just smirked. “I have everything I want,” he said, stalking closer as his gaze raked greedily over James. “The famed Winter Soldier, bought and paid for. At a hefty price, I might add.”

“Where’s Brock?” James growled, part of him already knowing the answer but unable to fully accept it until this man said the words and made it real. “Ah yes, your friend,” the man said with a grimace. “Your…soulmate, wasn’t he?”

James ground his teeth together as the man leaned forward, a nasty look in his eye. “Such a shame,” he murmured. “But rest assured, the man responsible for disobeying my orders to take you both alive has been dealt with.” The man didn’t even flinch as James surged forward against his restraints, murder in his eyes. “You’re lying,” James snarled, switching back to his native tongue. “I wish I was,” the man replied sorrowfully in heavily-accented English.

The drugs were still heavy in his system. James could feel them clouding his mind and shutting him out of that part of himself that connected him to Brock, no matter the distance. He couldn't feel Brock. He wasn't there.

Brock was gone.

James felt himself spiralling out of control, loosing his centre as something hot and ugly roared within him. An animalistic growl tore his throat as he slammed his forehead towards the man's face.

The man was too quick and then James’ head was snapping to the side from a vicious backhand across the face. “That was rude,” the man spat in his guttural mother tongue. James felt a hand grasp his long hair and yank his head back sharply. He stared up into a pair of furious eyes even as he felt a few hairs separate from his scalp. “Don’t test me,” the man hissed softly. “You’ll find that even my patience has it’s limits.” James responded by baring his teeth and then spitting in the man’s face.

He braced for another slap but to his surprise and growing dread, the man smiled, something cold and ugly in his eye. “I was going to let you rest until tomorrow,” he said as he deftly wiped the bloody spit from his cheek. “But I see no reason to wait.” He nodded crisply at someone out of sight. Something was rolled up behind James and suddenly an orderly was wrapping a strap around his throat, keeping his head immobile.

“No,” he whispered as something terrifyingly familiar loomed into view. “No, no, no, no.”

He struggled and thrashed but his bonds wouldn't budge an inch. Fingers shoved themselves cruelly against his jaw, wrenching it open and shoving a mouth guard over his teeth. Even as the cold metal clamped down on either side of his head, he heard the man whisper in his ear, words harsh and smug. Words that sent a cold tingle of fear down James’ spin even as the electricity crackled through his brain, frying his nerve endings and ripping an guttural scream from his throat.

_“Welcome home, Soldat.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, what have I done?  
> I know this was a short chapter but the next will be longer and I will try not to make you guys wait too long. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for all the amazing feedback and support! I'm so glad everyone is still invested in this story! Feedback is my fairy dust! xoxoxo


	19. Sometimes We Survive By Forgetting

_“Longing.”_

Someone was screaming. Guttural and animalistic. It was harsh and broken, scratching at his ears like nails on a chalkboard.

_“Rusted. Seventeen.”_

It took a moment to realize that he was the one screaming.

_“Daybreak.”_

His body convulsed against his will, his back arching as far off the reclined chair as his restraints would allow. Tremors racked his muscles which clenched and spasmed painfully.

_“Furnace. Nine. Benign.”_

His body was on fire. Hot pain lanced sharply through his head, stabbing and burning from the inside out. Burning him away.

_“Homecoming. One.”_

He tasted iron and knew he’d torn something inside his throat yet he couldn’t stop screaming. His hands were numb. He couldn’t breath.

_“Freight car.”_

As suddenly as it started, the pain stopped. His muscles trembled as he gasped for breath. His skin burned and he fought the urge to retch as the machine retracted back, the metal plates peeling back from his temples. The mouthguard was yanked from his teeth as the chair slowly rose upright. His head lolled forward against his chest as he shuddered with aftershocks.

“Good morning, _Soldat_.”

He flinched as a hand roughly grasped his chin and forced him to look up at a stern-visaged man in a crisp suit. _“_ What is your name _, Soldat?”_ the man said sternly, giving him a little shake. He blinked sluggishly as his brain stopped shorting out. He slowly dragged his gaze up, forcing his eyes to focus. He couldn’t remember the man’s name, or if he had ever known it but he knew exactly what to say to him.

“F-f-fuck you,” he whispered.

He found his head snapping harshly to the side by the force of the slap. "What is your name?" the man hissed again. A name trickled through his brain, _James,_ but he wasn't about to give the bastard the satisfaction. He chuckled, spitting blood on the man's expensive looking shoes. "Why don't you ask your mama," he said, baring bloodstained teeth in a feral grin. "She sure was screaming it last night." 

The man backhanded him so viciously that his other cheek bounced off the corner of the chair. “Muzzle him,” the nameless man ordered.

James thrashed his head but couldn’t stop the two bulky orderlies from strapped a black half mask firmly over his nose and mouth. The bottom of the mask slid under his chin, effectively keeping his mouth closed. He hated it as soon as it touched his skin but couldn’t quite remember why.

“Again,” the nameless man hissed. “Sir, that was his second session today,” one lab tech spoke up hesitantly. “Again,” the man repeated cooly. “Sir, the asset’s programming is obviously broken,” a different man said, one holding more authority in his voice. “We put him through another session so soon and we run the risk of permanent brain damage.”

James stopped listening. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. It was hard to remember things. Anything about himself beyond his name was a struggle. He did remember other faces. A skinny blonde guy. A massive mountain of a man with the same blonde hair and same face. A pretty brunette with cupid bow lips and a sharp tongue. A man with short dark hair, mischievous dark eyes, and a sarcastic smirk. For some reason, that face made him sad.

“Fine,” he heard the man snap. “Put him on ice until you figure this out.” The man sounded irate and he wasn't sure why that made him feel a grim sense of satisfaction. “We haven’t been able to get the cryo unit up and running,” someone said nervously. There was more arguing but he didn’t pay it much mind, focusing on that face that kept popping into his mind.

His restraints suddenly released and James found himself pitching forward. Hands grabbed him before he hit the ground and dragged him from the room. He couldn’t summon the energy to try and fight as he was taken into a cell-like windowless room and shoved to his knees. His flesh arm was twisted viciously behind his back as they cuffed his still deactivated prosthetic to the ground. The other was chained in a similar fashion, stretched so tight he felt the pull across his shoulder muscles. A sharp stabbing pain thrummed through the side of his neck as one of the men injected more drugs into his system.

The door slid shut with an echoing thud, plunging the room into darkness.

James took a painful, shaky breath. That same dark haired man’s face popped back into his head and it made his chest hurt and his eyes burn. After trying for what seemed like hours, his scrambled brain finally supplied a name for the face of the man with the dark hair.

 _Brock_.

He couldn’t even say the name out loud, the muzzle pushing up against the underside of his jaw. He felt moisture drip down his cheeks before soaking into the mask. Then the drugs hit him in full force and he lost the ability to focus on anything in particular.

 

 

  
“Jesus,” Steve heard Sam murmur as he rewound and re-watched the security camera playback from the corner store across the street from the alley. Steve said nothing, eyes locked to the screen as he watched Bucky mow his way through the attackers. He watched Bucky fall under a barrage of tranquilizer darts, watched as Rumlow ran to him as men rounded into the alley, watched as the former HYDRA Commander was shot through the back of the head.

His heads clenched into fists as Bucky was dragged into a waiting van. “I had Jarvis run the plates on the van,” Tony said softly. “It was abandoned in an alley on the other side of Brooklyn. They switched vehicles four times before getting on a plane out of a private airfield. That’s when we lost them.”

“They could be anywhere by now,” Steve said stiffly as he stared at the small black shape that was Rumlow’s body, lying left in the alley where he fell. “I lost him. Again.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Tony replied sharply before retreating footsteps announced his swift exit. A hand clapped on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “We’ll find him, Steve,” Sam said reassuringly. “I promise you that.”

“Yeah,” Steve said as he rewound the tape and watched it from the beginning again. “Steve,” Sam said with a sigh. “We might have missed something,” Steve said softly, rewinding the tape as soon as Sam’s voice distracted him. “Steve, you’ve watched it more than enough—.”

“We might have missed something,” Steve said again, sternly and in a tone that brokered no room for argument. He heard Sam sigh again and felt more than heard the man make his way out of the room. Steve watched the tape twice more through, coming over every single detail, before soft footsteps echoed and a chair scraping against the ground.

Steve glanced over to see Clint straddling the chair beside him. “Two eyes are better than one,” the archer said with carefully controlled expression. Steve knew that minus Bucky, Clint had known Rumlow best. He had even vouched for the man to Steve more than once. Clint was a master of his emotions, almost as good as Natasha, however Steve could see the tightness around the man’s eyes and the way his jaw muscles twitched as he stared at the screen.

They watched the feed up until the point Rumlow fell and then Steve couldn’t deal with it anymore. He got to his feet with a shaky breath and his hands firmly on his hips so the other man couldn’t see them shaking.

“I hated him,” he confessed, throwing a glance towards the screen where the feed was still playing, showing nothing but the small shadowy figure of Rumlow’s body lying where it fell. “But I never wanted this. Or maybe I did, in the beginning, but not anymore. I may not have liked him but I never—,” he cut himself off, realizing he was rambling.

“Not your fault, Cap,” Clint said softly, eyes sharp and sad as he looked up from his seat. “You know that. This isn’t your fault.” Steve nodded, unconvinced as his mind was drawn back to snowy nights and shells raining down from dark skies. “I knew a bonded pair during the war,” he said softly. “And I saw firsthand what happens to someone when their bonded dies. It was…,” he shuddered at the memory, swallowing thickly. “She was a French nurse, working in a church turned hospital when it was bombed. We had to hold him down to keep him from running into the flames. He wouldn’t stop screaming.”

Steve clenched his teeth as his breath hitched on the memories. He could almost feel the heat on his face from the fire, feel the man’s screams vibrate against his chest as he held the soldier against the frozen ground. At the time, Steve couldn’t truly understand what was happening. Now he knew that the soldier was literally feeling his bonded die. “He was gone when we woke the next morning,” he continued bitterly, staring down at his boots. “No one ever saw him again.”

Clint said nothing but after a moment Steve found himself being pulled into a tight embrace. It was brief but any longer and the burning in Steve’s eyes might have overwhelmed him. “Come on,” Clint said gently. “Let’s get something to eat.” Steve nodded stiffly, moving reluctantly to close the laptop.

Then he saw it.

“Wait,” he said sharply. “Look,” he breathed as a shadow detached itself from the wall of the alley. It took the form of a man and Clint and Steve watched as he slipped across the alley towards Rumlow’s body. The man crouched over Rumlow for a long moment before carefully scooping him into his arms and disappeared from sight. “Son of a bitch,” Clint murmured.

 

 

 

  
Brock crawled back into consciousness to the mother of all headaches. Not like the one too many beers of a Saturday night headache, like someone ran over his fucking head with a tank. The side of his head in particular felt like it was on fire. He blinked but couldn’t clear the darkness. He flailed, feeling a stinging tug against the back of his hand.

“Stop. Brock, stop,” a rough familiar voice soothed as hands clamped gently yet firmly on his biceps. “You need to stay still.” Brock blinked again, squinting at the blurry shape that swam in front of him. “Wha?” he slurred, tongue feeling thick and clumsy in his head. Slowly, his eyes dragged the man’s face into focus, identifying the familiar slicked back hair, the thick ropy scar that wrapped around his chin, the slight worried furrow between his eyebrows.

“Wha hap’nd?” he asked, struggling to get his elbows underneath him and sit up. “Lie still, idiot,” Jack said sternly as he guiding Brock’s head carefully back onto the pillow. “You got shot,” he said, hands busy as they untangled something from around Brock’s arm. “I did?” Brock said incredulously, closing his eyes against the throbbing pain that was creeping down his skull. “Is tha why m’ head hurt?”

“I said you got shot, didn’t I?” Jack said with exaggerated patience. “In m’ head?!” Brock said, eyes snapping open and leaning forward again. “Stop moving,” Jack growled, placing a hand firmly on Brock’s chest. A bright light flashed in his eyes and he grimaced. “You were lucky. Another inch left and we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” the younger man said with a grimace. Or what Brock assumed was a grimace. He was trying to blink the bright spots out of his vision. “But you have a pretty sever head lac, not to mention a nasty concussion.”

“Gran al’ayz said I h’d a hard head,” Brock chuckled, feeling very tired. He just wanted to sleep. Jack and the team would watch his back until SHIELD could evac them out of whatever hellhole they had been sent to. He couldn't remember the mission, or if they'd been successful and that bothered him. Then reality reared its ugly head and his eyes snapped back open. “Jack, where is he?” he whispered. His eyes wouldn’t focus properly and he could barely make out Jack’s face. “Where’s James? Wha happn’d? I can’t…’member....”

Silence was his answer. “Jack,” he snapped, breath stuttering in his chest. “You need to rest,” Jack said gently. “Fuck tha’,” Brock growled weakly even as his eyes fluttered closed. “Jack,” he growled, but it came out slurred and wrong. He thought he might have heard Jack curse but there was a heavy rushing in his ears and then everything went quiet.

 

When Brock woke again, Jack wasn’t there. Everything had a sort of muffled quality to it and he was still having trouble focusing. He felt like he was floating and a small detached part of his brain supplied the word _morphine_ before everything faded away.

When he opened his eyes again, everything looked different. He wasn’t in the warehouse anymore. The room was different. It was bright and airy. He was on a real bed, not an threadbare mattress stacked on wooden pallets. He could feel a mask was fit snuggly over his nose and mouth and he instantly hated it. He thrashed, clawing weakly at it.

Hands grabbed at his and held him down but that just made him panic more. Sometime cold trickled through the port in his hand and he felt control over his body slip away again.

When Brock finally dragged himself back from the darkness, his mind felt clearer. His head was still killing him but his eyes focused easily on his surroundings now. He was in a small brightly lite room, with soft curtains drawn on the windows. An IV line ran from the back of his hand and an oxygen mask was still fitted snuggly over his nose and mouth. It made him feel trapped, the panic coming from somewhere deep under his ribs. A panic that wasn’t his.

Acknowledging that it wasn’t him that was freaking out didn’t stop him from ripping the mask off his face with shaky fingers. He sat up carefully, wincing as a deep pain stabbed through his head and neck. He pressed a hand carefully to the side of his head, feeling the thick bandages that wrapped around his skull.

Brock swung his feet out over the bed as he pulled the IV from his hand. Gingerly he got to his feet, pausing as his stomach rolled and the room spun. He gritted his teeth and moved towards the door. Hushed voices on the other side made him pause. He tried to make out words but couldn’t hear anything beyond a dull murmur.

As he reached for the doorknob, his vision darkened and swam and suddenly the floor fell out from underneath him. Something stretched and then snapped behind his eyeballs and then the room fell away around him.

 

 

_His bare feet slid along the ground as he was dragged backwards. It took him a minute to realize that those weren’t his feet._

_Something was covering his nose and mouth, pressing up against the underside of his chin and effectively muzzling him. His left arm felt limp and heavy. The floor changed from plain cement to white tile and then a moment later his back connected with something hard. Something clamped around his wrist and bicep and then a man stepped into his peripheral vision._

_He was dressed smartly in a nice suit and had a cruel arrogance around him. His lips moved as he spoke but Brock couldn’t understand him. It was muffled and guttural and didn’t make sense. The man nodded to someone out of Brock’s vision. The chair suddenly tipped back with a whir and Brock caught his reflection in the reflective metal ceiling._

_Bright blue eyes widened above a half black mask as a familiar device clamped against either side of his head. Brock could feel the cold metal pressing against his temples moments before hot electricity cracked through his head._

_The mask did little to muffle his screams._

 

  
Brock snapped back into his own mind again with a gasp. He still felt the cuffs wrapped around his wrists and he thrashed weakly as lingering echoes of pain flickered through his brain. A raspy voice murmured next to his ear and he slowly realized that he wasn’t strapped down to that hated metal chair but was being held carefully against a warm muscular chest. It wasn't cold metal cuffs that wrapped around his wrists, but instead large scarred hands.

“You back?” Jack rumbled behind him. Brock nodded carefully, gasping for air. The hands let go of his wrist and Jack maneuvered himself out from behind him. “They have him,” Brock croaked, glancing up at Jack’s scarred face. “They have him.”

Jack’s lips pressed into a thin line and his eyes grew hard. Brock allowed Jack to help him to his feet, not even grumbling when the other man guided him to sit down. "How did you find me?" Brock asked stiffly, eyeing the man warily. He hadn't had a proper talk with him since the everything that had been revealed at the hospital a few months ago. The last he knew Jack was being wheeled away into surgery and he had been called away to deal with James. He hadn't been able to revisit the hospital for another week and before he could, they got word Jack had slipped his security detail and was gone.

"Dumb luck," Jack confessed as he untangled the abandoned IV line. "You decided to be abducted in the alley behind an old safe house I was clearing out." Brock frowned. "You never told me you had a safe house in Brooklyn." Jack just shrugged as he swabbed the back of Brock's hand. "No, I didn't," he said glibly. “Where are we?” Brock asked, feeling a headache begin to settle in on his temples. “Still in New York," Jack said cryptically. "At a friend’s."

“A friends?” Brock asked with raised eyebrows. Jack ignored him, busying himself with hooking Brock back up to the IV. Clearly, he wasn't going to say anything more on the subject. A rush of panic settled over Brock again, surging under his ribs in a way that he was very familiar with now. “I have to find him,” he murmured, moving to stand again only to have Jack shove him back down. "Sit,” Jack snapped. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

“I have to—,” Brock tried again but Jack was having none of it. “ _You_ have to rest," the man snapped. "You've been in and out of consciousness for the last four days, completely delirious. Your fever only broke this morning.”

“Jack,” he tried but couldn’t find the energy to fight the bigger man as he literally manhandled him back into the bed. "Jack, I need-,"

“You need to drink this,” the younger man ordered, shoving a cup of broth into Brock’s hands. “If you keep it down, I’ll get you some soup.” Under Jack’s sharp eye, Brock meekly drank the broth and then a little while later managed half a bowl of chicken stew. All the while, Jack refused to let Brock get a word in edgewise and glared sternly whenever he tried. Finally Brock gave up and, grumbling unflattering things about Jack's mother and his parentage under his breath, did as he was told. 

“Okay,” Jack finally said once Brock had finished most the soup. “Now, what did you see?” Brock must have looked confused because Jack just rolled his eyes. “If you thought I wasn’t gonna help you find him, your concussion is worse than I thought." A confusing mix of feelings tangled inside Brock's chest and made it hard to breath. It was so easy to fall back into old patterns with Jack, he could almost forget everything that had since happen between them. He could see a similar war in Jack's eyes, for all the man's face remained calm and passive. Brock wasn't sure he could trust his voice so he just nodded instead. “So,” Jack said patiently, leaning forward with his elbows planted on his knees. “What do you remember seeing?”

“They had him muzzled” he said, closing his eyes against the echo of a welling panic that wasn’t his. “They put him back in the chair.” Brock swallowed thickly, mouth tasting bitter and metallic. “Do you know where he is?” Jack asked softly. “Did you see any windows, anything familiar? Landmarks? Any people?” Brock just kept shaking his head. “I saw one man, a suit but I didn’t recognize him.”

“Did he say anything?” The questions were starting to make Brock’s head hurt. “I couldn’t—I don’t know, maybe. I couldn't understand him,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, enough for now,” Jack said and Brock heard the clink of dishes as Jack stood. “Get some sleep.” 

The man in the suit’s face swam behind his eyelids, his voice echoing and distorted. Then it clicked. He suddenly realized why he hadn’t understood him at first. “Russian,” Brock said, locking eyes with Jack who looked back over his shoulder, one hand on the door. “He was speaking Russian.”

Jack nodded curtly. “Sleep,” he ordered. “I’ll do some digging.” Brock nodded, his eyelids feeling heavy. The door closed with a soft click just as his eyes slid closed and he fell into darkness again.

 

  
_Brock opened his eyes into a sea of grey mist. He looked around, confused. He turned in a circle, seeing nothing but a sea of fog. He called out but heard nothing back. He stumbled as a wave of dizziness swamped him. His mouth became dry like sandpaper, and his head felt fuzzy. It felt like he was drugged._

_He spun back around, blinking as a dark shape rippled out of the mist. Brock took a step closer, the shape becoming clearer the closer he gets. His heart caught in his throat as the blurry shape suddenly snapped into focus._

_It was James._

_Brock surged forward, falling to his knees in front of the chained man. He was on his knees, wrists were cuffed to the ground on either side of him. His shoulders strained against the too-short chains, causing him to fold forward over his thighs. His hair hung lack around his face, the same half mask strapped around his face._

_“Hey, James,” Brock whispered but there was no response. “Hey, come on darlin’, wake up.” He slipped a hand under James’ chin, tilting his head up as his other hand cupped the side of his face. He brushed his thumb along the inch of skin below his eye, the mask feeling rough against his palm._

_James’ eyes fluttered open, normally brilliant blue eyes dull and unfocused. His head lolled heavily in Brock’s hand, like he didn’t have the strength to hold it up himself. He blinked sluggishly, eyes finally focusing on Brock’s face. “James?” Brock whispered. His breath crashed from his lungs by a pain that wasn’t his. It felt like a shard of ice stabbing up under his ribs. As he watched, James’ eyes filled and overflowed down his cheeks, soaking into the material of the mask._

_“Hey, no, no, it’s okay,” Brock murmured, cupping the man’s face in both hands and pressing his forehead to James’. “I’m coming for you,” he whispered fiercely. He felt James shake his head slightly, a small whimper escaping from somewhere deep in his throat._

_“I will find you. I promise.”_

_He felt James jerk and rear back from Brock’s touch, his eyes focusing on something far away over Brock’s shoulder. “James?” Before Brock could say anything else, James was gone. He dissolved into mist under Brock’s very hands and disappeared._

 

 

He woke with a start, struggling to crawl from his drug induced sleep even as the fog refused to clear from his mind. He kept his head low as the guards marched into his cell, not wanting them to see the tear tracks that had streaked under his eyes.

_Gentle warm hands cradling his face, a breath on his cheek, a forehead pressed gently to his forehead. A soft familiar voice calling his name._

_His name….._

It hurt to remember. Trying to remember anything hurt. He was so tired of being hurt. His temples throbbed and something sharp stabbed behind his eyes. He couldn’t recall anything, not where he was or even _who_ he was. He couldn’t even remember his own name and he certainly couldn’t remember the man he saw in his dreams. Even now, the voice was slipping away, getting lost in the mist that swirled in his brain and clouded his eyes. It was like trying to hold onto sunshine. Or music.

He couldn't remember. He couldn't...

Footsteps echoed through the hall, pulling him from his painful reminiscing. A pair of expensive leather shoes stopped in front of him and a hand gripped his hair, roughly yanking his head back. He didn’t react, even as he felt a handful of hairs get pulled out by the roots. “Bad dreams?” a cruel voice murmured as the nameless man crouched in front of him. With a sharp tug, he felt the mask be ripped off roughly.

"What is your name?" the man hissed. He had a feeling that he'd been asked this question before but he didn't answer. The man growled, giving him a sharp shake, like a terrier might shake a rat. "Answer me!" the man snapped, yanking his head so far back that he arched his back in an effort to relieve some of he strain on his scalp.

_"What is your name?!"_

 "I...I don't," he gasped, feeling the cuff bite into the flesh around his right wrist. "You don't what? the man said sharply, giving him another shake. "I don't remember," he whispered.

This seemed to be the answer he was looking for. The pressure on his scalp loosened, even though the hand stayed buried in his hair. The man smiled, a sickly smile that made his skin crawl at the sight of it. "Good," the man said, practically purring. 

His head was suddenly yanked to the side, baring the side of his neck. “We are going to try something a little different today,” the man said as the familiar pinprick of a needle bit into his neck. His mind grew fuzzy and sleepy. The man’s voice took on a hypnotic quality and he felt himself being lulled into a sort of waking sleep. His muscles relaxed, slumping forward. He would have flopped straight to the floor if not for the cruel grip on his hair.

“Now then _soldat_ ,” the man said, not letting go of his hair as another guard rolled in a cloth-covered tray into the cell. “Are you ready to be reborn?”

 

 

  
Brock’s eyes snapped open, taking a moment to adjust to the low light. It was dark out, the soft glow of the streetlamp outside throwing long shadows across the room. He sucked in a slow deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart. That hadn’t just been a dream.

That was James, drugged and imprisoned, but _alive_.

With a wince, he pulled his IV again and made his way out of the room. A short hallway lead him past a bathroom and another closed door before opening up into a kitchen/living room combo. He found Jack sprawled out along the couch, his face illuminated softly by the glow of the laptop across his knees. He glanced up as Brock crossed over into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.

“You should be in bed,” Jack scolded. “I’m fine,” Brock said as he gulped the water down. “What have you found?” Jack sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Not enough,” he confessed. “I've ID’ed a couple of the bodies in the alley. Local mercs all with ties to the Russians so your vision checks out.”

“What about the van?” Brock asked as he settled into an armchair across from Jack. “Trying to find security footage now but it’s slow going with this,” Jack confessed with a look of disgust as he indicated the computer in front of him. Brock bit back a curse. There wasn’t much to go on and they had very limited resources.

Suddenly a blinding flash of pain struck hot across Brock’s temples and he tumbled forward. Jack was at his side in an instant, a hand pressed to his chest to steady him. Then, as soon as it had struck, it was gone, leaving Brock blinking away tears. “He—I—,” Brock gasped, heaving air into a tight-feeling chest. He looked eyes with Jack, frantic meeting stoic. “We need to find him,” he breathed, a tinge of panic seeping into the words. 

At that moment, a phone rang, making both men jump. Jack frowned, shaking his head as the phone continued to ring. Finally it stopped and the answering machine picked up. “Rumlow, I know it’s you’re there,” a familiar voice crackled through the room. “I can feel you brooding even from here.” 

"The fuck?" Brock muttered as Jack stood up in alarm. He felt the younger man's eyes on him as he crossed the room. "Brock," Jack said warningly as he reached for the receiver but he just waved away the other man's concern. He trusted the archer, however insane it sounded even to himself. So against Jack's growled warning, he picked up the phone.

“Clint?” Brock said incredulously. “Hey, glad you’re not dead,” the archer said sarcastically, but Brock could hear the relief in your voice. “Yeah, me too,” Brock said. He suddenly had to sit down. He held the phone a little out from his ear as Jack scooted closer to eavesdrop. “Where are you?” Clint asked. “Nearby,” Brock said vaguely, knowing Stark could trace the call in a matter of seconds. Jack clearly knew it too, if the tension radiating off him in waves was anything to go by.

“Okay,” the archer said simply, not even hesitated on the evasive answer. “You need to come back to the tower. Bring Rollins with you.” Brock clutched at the phone with white knuckles as he hung on Clint’s next words.

“We think we found him.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've been doing a couple shorter chapters, but I promise a bit more of a meatier one come the future. Thank you to everyone for all the amazing feedback! It really means the world to me that you're all still enjoying what I'm writing! xoxo


	20. How To Start Healing

_Everything was in fog. It danced around him, swirling around his arms, curling through his hair like fingers. It was thick as soup. He couldn’t see through it. He couldn’t see anything. He called out but the sound was snatched from the air as soon as the words left his mouth. He sucked in a breath and the fog whisked down into his throat. It coated his lungs like syrup._

_He screamed…._

 

Brock thrashed awake with a horse cry, startling Clint so badly the man sloshed coffee all over the floor. “Easy,” rumbled a low voice and Brock’s eyes snapped over to Jack’s face. The man knelt at the foot on the couch, one hand lightly gripping his ankle.

“Fuck,” Brock huffed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “The mist dream again?” the younger man asked quietly, careful not to let his voice carry to the others. Brock nodded, sitting up with a wince. It had been weeks, weeks, since Barton had called him with a lead. It had been weeks since that lead had run cold, leading to nothing but abandoned bases and more questions.

Everyone’s nerves were beginning to fray. Barton was fine, as always. Rogers was getting difficult to be around. It wasn’t anything overt, but the stressed tension that radiated from the man put Brock’s teeth on edge. They were running out of leads. Correction, they had been out of leads for the past two days. They’d all just been going over the intel they had and around in circles. “I may have a lead,” Jack said softly, correctly interpreting the look on his face. “Don’t get excited yet,” he cautioned as Brock’s wide eyes snapped back to his. “We’ll know in a couple hours if my source comes through.”

Two hours later, Jack’s phone rang. The three other men stood and watched in silence as the big man turned away, muttering quietly. He suddenly went stiff, hissing sternly into the phone. The tension in the room was stifling. A knock at the door had Brock flinching, hand straying to the SIG tucked in his jeans. Rogers stiffened, shifting his feet as Clint’s fingers fiddled with the trigger that would send his collapsed bow snapping out. “For fuck’s sake,” Jack muttered as he strode briskly to the door and yanked it open. “The fuck are you doing here?” he hissed at the slim young woman with curling brunette hair who stood in the doorway. “Nice to see you too,” she drawled, slipping nimbly around the man’s bulk and into the room. “Hello boys,” she said brightly.

“I told you I’d meet you at a drop point,” Jack said, eyes hard and angry but Brock knew him enough to know that he wasn’t mad. He was scared. Brock’s gaze flicked over the other two men. Clint looked nothing more than calmly interested but Rogers was another matter. His brow was slightly furrowed and there was a look of intense concentration on his face, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle.

“And I told you,” the woman told Jack calmly. “That I spent ages decoding this shit and that you’d need me to explain it.” Jack’s jaw twitched but he didn’t say anything else, stepping aside to let her pass. “Right, let’s get started shall we?” she said brightly, swinging a large backpack up onto the table between them. “And who are you?” Clint asked with a raised eyebrow. “You can call me Dani,” she said with a smile, beginning to unpack a large stack of folders and a laptop from the bag.

“I know you,” Rogers said suddenly. Dani’s eyes flicked up to meet his, gaze intrigued. Jack tensed, unconsciously shifting his weight towards the newcomer. The movement was minute but Brock was watching. “You were there when I woke up from the ice,” the blonde continued, eyes narrowing. “In the fake hospital room. You’re a SHIELD agent.” The air in the room thrummed. Jack’s hand strayed to the absolutely massive Bowie knife he had strapped to his hip.

The tension snapped as a sly smile pulled at Dani’s lips. “Good to see you again, Captain Rogers,” she said. “Why are you here?” the man asked sharply. “To help,” was the simple answer. “I’ve spent months sifting through all the information Agent Romanoff dumped onto the web. There’s a lot of HYDRA codes hidden in plain sight; emergency protocols, hidden bases.”

“SHIELD collapsed,” Clint pointed out, tone betraying nothing but civil curiosity. “So who are you working for now?” Dani shrugged, shoulders rippling gracefully. “Call this a hobby,” she replied vaguely. “And we’re just supposed to trust you?” Rogers questioned, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I vouch for her,” Jack said, hard eyes boring holes through the blonde man. “You really think I’m gonna trust your word?” Steve gritting out between clenched teeth.

“If you two are finished with the pissing contest,” Brock grumbled, crossing between the two posturing men to stand next to Dani. “What do you have?” Dani handed him a file folder with a smile. “So HYDRA had multiple failsafes and emergency plans built right into the SHIELD network. The trick was finding and understanding it. Those bastards are slippery, present company excluded,” she added, casting looks to both Brock and Jack.

“But I managed to find a few references to an emergency protocol in regards to the Winter Soldier,” she continued, opening the laptop. “It’s a fucking kaleidoscope of code, scattered throughout a massive amount of intel.” She pointed to what looked like a supply memo on the laptop. Clint crowded closer, looking over her other shoulder as Rogers and Jack kept a wary eye on each other. “It’s a multi-level encryption cipher,” she explained. “But I believe I’ve finally cracked it.”

The next two hours gave Brock a headache as they all poured over the intel, searching for something that would fit with things they already knew. “Okay, we need a break,” Clint finally sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m going crosseyed.” They ordered Thai, sitting around eating out of takeout boxes with folder files across their knees. Brock ate slowly, eyeing the way Jack and Dani were sequestered in a corner of the apartment, whispering intently. Jack was slumped into himself ever so slightly while Dani stood sternly with her hands braced on her hips. She said something that had Jack huffing a sigh and nodding reluctantly. She brushed past him, but not before Brock caught the way her fingers caressed the inside of the man’s wrist. She was good, body-blocking the touch from the room but Brock just happened to be at the perfect angle.

It was about an hour later, while Brock was tossing takeout containers into the trash, that Jack stole up beside him and asked to speak to him in private. Brock could feel both Rogers’ and Dani’s eyes tracking them to the small balcony that produced from the side of the apartment. “What’s up?” Brock asked briskly, tone tinged heavily with suspicion. He watched Jack as the man leaned against the railing, fingers fiddling with the cuffs of his jacket. Jack never fidgeted.

“I need to know we’re good,” Jack said stiffly, staring out across the street. “Or at least as good as we can ever be.” Brock narrowed his eyes, suspicions rising. He could guess what this was about but he needed to hear Jack say it. “The fuck you talking about?” he snapped. Jack swallowed, throat rolling nervously. “We’re about to willingly walk into a war zone,” he explained. “I need to know that whatever our past, it won’t foul us in the field.”

 _“Whatever our past,”_ Brock deadpanned. A flinch shivered sharply over Jack’s face. Brock clenched his teeth, biting back the harsh words that were bubbling up his throat. “It’s fine,” he said instead. “We’re fine.” 

“Just say it,” Jack said quietly, stopping Brock mid stride on his way back inside. “Whatever it is, just fucking say it.” Brock took a long, slow breath, sucking on his teeth as he turned on his heels. “What would I say, Jack?” He planted his hands on his hips to keep from punching the taller man across the jaw, or to keep them from shaking he wasn’t really sure. “You drove me to ever therapy session,” he stated, voice deadly quiet. “But you were the fuckin’ reason I had to go in the first place. So you tell me, what would I possibly want to say to you?”

Jack wouldn’t even make eye contact. “That’s what I thought,” Brock stated, turning away. Fo the second time, Jack’s voice had him pulling up short. “They broke my arm,” the big man said stiffly. “You remember? Spiral fracture. I was in a cast for six weeks.” Brock took a slow breath. “I remember,” he said, turning around reluctantly. Jack held up his left hand, isolating his pinkie and ring fingers. “I never regained feeling in these. I never regained full range in my left shoulder either because they left me hanging for four hours with a dislocation. It was never the same, not even after surgery.”

Jack’s jaw trembled, ever so slightly, although his voice never wavered. “What they did to you was gonna happen whether I was there or not.” Brock swallowed thickly, old emotions and reactions clawing there way to the surface. “I’m not trying to excuse what I did,” Jack insisted, eyes a little over bright and shiny. “There’s no excuse, but at least if I was there, I could make sure what they did to me didn’t happen to you.” Brock huffed a breath, shaking his head a little. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the man. He did and that was the problem. “I could make sure that nothing they did caused permanent damage.”

“Just stop,” Brock interrupted, throat feeling tight. “Stop talking.” He swallowed what felt like nails and turned back to the door. “I can’t do this right now,” he added, shoving his way back inside. “Not a word,” he shot at Clint who glanced up to his reentrance with a raised eyebrow. “I think we found something,” Dani called out from where she was perched at the table with Rogers. He could feel the woman’s eyes on him as he slide in beside her but he ignored it. He ignored Jack, as the big man folded in unobtrusively behind everyone as Rogers explained the strange errors in the accounting memos for quinjet engine parts that was actually a worse case scenario plan for what to do with the Asset if he should ever go awol.

“We just need to figure out where they are,” Rogers sighed. He kept talking but Brock’s attention was caught by a manifest from a manufacturer by the name of _Durer Ltd_. He snatched the paper from the pile, something about it nagging at the back of his head. “You think they’re still using painter’s code?” Jack murmured, leaning over his shoulder. “It’s an old one,” Brock replied slowly. He chewed on his lip in thought. “There any more invoices from Durer Ltd?” he asked, interrupting Rogers mid-sentence. “Ummm, these four,” Dani said, passing them over. Brock scanned them each, looking for one thing in particular. “You see?” Jack said. “Mmm,” Brock answered, neither man needing to elaborate. The conversation on the balcony was momentarily forgotten as he fell back into easy old habits with the man who'd been his second for over two decades.

“They’re in Bavaria,” he said, slapping the papers back on the table. “Nuremberg to be exact.”

The conversation around them ground to a halt. “How can you be sure?” Rogers demanded. “It’s not an actual code, just something HYDRA came up with in the 60s,” Brock explained. “Us on STRIKE called it painter’s code.” He pointed to the invoice, indicating the company name and a string of numbers that looked like a shipping code. “Names of famous painters or musicians are placed innocuously into paperwork alongside specific dates. Find what city they were in on that date and bingo. Stupidly simple.”

“But effective,” Clint drawled with a smirk. “Albrecht Durer was born in Nuremberg on May 21, 1471. What? I only pretend to not know anything outside of archery and 90s pop culture,” he added as everyone turned to stare at him. “Brilliant,” Dani said, beaming like a proud parent. “Okay,” Rogers stated, transforming into Captain America before their very eyes. “Pack up, we leave in ten. Looks like we’re going to Bavaria.”

“ _You are not_ going to Bavaria,” Jack said sternly to Dani in a hushed tone as everyone scattered to get there things together. The brunette just smirked, patting Jack on the cheek. “I think what you meant to say was _‘Thank you, oh queen of dark-net intel'_ ,” Dani murmured with a wink. Jack just gave her a look, somehow managing to look like something caught between stern boss and kicked puppy. “Kidding, kidding,” she teased, placing a hand on Jack’s chest briefly before beginning to gather up the papers.

Jack’s eyes softened, taking on a look Brock had never seen before. He knew the two were obviously involved but now the final missing link clicked into place. He hung back, letting the other Clint and Rogers file out first. “Thank you,” he said, clasping hands with Dani. His eyes flicked briefly to Jack who was packing away the last pieces of his rifle into a duffel bag. “I know for a fact he doesn’t deserve you,” he added with a lopsided smirk.

“Oh I don’t know,” Dani said, a smile in her eyes as she looked back at the big man. “I’ve done my fair share of shit, even if I was doing it for the _‘good guys’_.” She twisted her fingers in air quotes, tone turning a little bitter. She hesitated, something nervous flooding her eyes. “I know he hurt you,” she stated. Brock shifted his weight, really not wanting to dig into this again. “We’re fine,” he said automatically. Dani raised an eyebrow at him and god, did she look like Jack when she did that.  
  
“I don’t need you to like him,” she continued softly, something vulnerable flickering through her eyes. “And I don’t need you to forgive him. I just need to know you’ll watch his back.” Brock swallowed thickly, placing a hand on her arm. “I’ve got his back,” he said, voice only a little hoarse. Dani stared at him, sharp and searching. Whatever she saw there seemed to satisfy her and she nodded briskly.

“That’s all I ask,” she whispered.

“Everything good?” Jack asked, eyes wary as he stepped up beside them, bags slung over his back. “Yeah, all good,” Dani said, turning to the tall man with a smile. “I’ll meet you outside,” Brock said, giving the two some privacy to say goodbye. The last thing he saw as he slipped out the door was Jack dropping his bags on the floor and bending down to press his forehead against Dani’s. They both took a deep inhale, synchronizing their breaths and in that moment Brock knew. He may never trust Jack again but he would make sure he came home to his soulmate.

 

They’d planned for every variable. They’d scoped every inch of the base, built underground a few hours outside of the city. An old underground sewage treatment pipe long abandoned because of a collapse took them into the breaker room. Air ducts with outdated security gave them access into the base itself. It was easy to shut down certain systems such as door locks, letting them slip through the halls unimpeded.

It was going so smoothly, until it wasn’t.

Jack was on point, Brock on his six with Rogers taking up the rear. Clint had held back, playing eyes in the sky when suddenly security doors that hadn’t been on any specs slammed shut behind them. A small disk was tossed into the hallway in front of them, flashing twice before sending a blinding concussive force down the hallway. The last thing Brock remembered was his feet lifting off the ground and then it all went black.

 

Brock came to on his side with his hands cuffed behind his back. He blinked sluggishly, clearing sparks and black spots. A bulky shape swam in his vision as Jack’s body slowly came into focus. The man also lay on his side, arms pinned behind him. “Rollins,” Brock hissed softly, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention. “Jack!” He got no response from the big man. Blood was caked down Jack’s nose, staining his lips. More trickled from his ears. He had been on point, he’d been closest to the blast.

Brock glanced around, taking in their surroundings. The room was small and windowless, with a heavy door to his left and a small drain inches from his face. Not really encouraging. He listened intently but could hear nothing beyond the rough scratch of Jack’s breath. The door swung open without warning and three black clad soldiers marched in. A stun baton was jabbed into his ribs, lighting the room with blue electricity. He grimaces as his muscles convulsed against his will. They dragged him up onto his knees, someone’s hand yanking painfully at his hair.

They were silent as they worked him over. Nothing overly creative, just fists and stun batons. It felt strangely personal but since he could see nothing but cold eyes through the slits in their balaclavas, he couldn’t be sure if he knew them. They dropped him unceremoniously to the ground when they were done. He spat blood, struggling back onto his knees as he turned the keycard he’d swiped from one of the men around in his fingers. That’s why you never let it get personal.

It took a bit to finagle the keyring to be able to pick the handcuffs. He held his breath with a hope and a prayer as he pinched the cuff tight in hopes of skipping the teeth on the keyring. With a soft snick, the cuff sprang free. Moments later he had Jack on his back, wrists also free as he tried to wake the big man up. “Come on Jackie,” he muttered as he fluttered his fingers against the man’s cheek. “Don’t make me carry your big ass outta here.” He dragged his knuckles along Jack’s sternum hard, but the man didn’t even flinch. He huffed a long breath, weighing his options. He hesitated. He didn’t like himself for it, but he hesitated. “Fuck,” he spat, dragging the big man up by the front of his shirt.

It was slow going, what with the mammoth dropped across his shoulders. Two doors down revealed a storage room with all their gear. He popped his comms in first, after draping Jack into a nearby chair. “Cap?” he hissed softly. “Cap, you copy?”

“Cap’s a little out of it right now,” Clint’s hushed reply crackling through the comms. “They drugged him up with something. I got him out, just making my way back now. What’s the plan?” Brock stalled, focusing on strapping his gun belt back on. “I need to get Jack out,” he said gruffly. “Then I need to find him.”

Clint didn’t argue, bless him, but there was a significant pause, the silence laying thick in Brock’s ear, before the archer spoke again. “Okay, get him to the laundry room.” Brock frowned. “The fucking what?” he hissed incredulously. “Even super secret Nazi bases need a laundry service,” Clint snarked. “There’s a laundry shoot. He’d not too broken, is he?” The words might have been callus and throwaway but the tone was worried. “He’ll be fine,” Brock said, glancing over at the younger man who was just beginning to stir.

“Rollins,” Brock said as he rounded the table, catching the groggy man’s attention. “Eyes here,” he commanded, doing his best to check pupil response. “How’d you feel?” Jack grimaced, bracing his hands to his knees. “Like I went to a death metal concert without earplugs,” he grumbled. “Whoah,” Brock hissed, alarmed as Jack swayed on his feet. “I’m fine,” the man snapped, stabilizing himself. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan is to get your ass outta here,” Brock snapped, to which Jack immediately shook his head. “Not gonna happen,” the man stated as he shrugged on his tac vest, clipping it briskly. “You were feet away from that grenade. You’re bleeding from the fuckin’ ears, for Christ’s sake,” he growled, grasping Jack’s bicep in an iron grip. “And we both know I’ve shaken off worse,” the man retorted, meeting Brock’s gaze steadily. “You can’t get him out on your own.” Brock ground his molars together until his jaw ached. Without a word he released Jack’s arm, tapping back into his comms.

“Hawkeye, change of plans,” he said stiffly, checking the clip in his SIG.

 

Brock glanced around the corner, clocking two guards standing guard on either side of an armoured door, looking far too relaxed. “Camera’s dead,” Clint’s voice murmured in his ear. “Now,” Brock breathed and on his cue, the lights went black. He dropped to a knee and two soft cracks echoed down the hallway, followed by two hard thumps. “Up,” Brock ordered and the lights snapped back on, revealing the two slumped bodies of the guards. A tap on his shoulder had Brock moving down the hallway, snatching up a swipe card and fob from the belt of the closest guard. He wiped the keycard off, smearing bloodstains on the dead guard’s pants before swiping it on the keypad. The door swung open to a second door. That door revealed a large cement room with racks of equipment to the far left and a slumped shadow near the back wall.

“James?” Brock breathed. The shadow didn’t move, didn’t even twitch. His fingers fumbled along the wall, finding the light switch. Ugly florescent light bloomed across the room. The shadow was revealed to be a man, wrists shackled and stretched out on either side. His head lolled forward on his chest, long hair obscuring his face.

God, there he was.

“Hey kid,” Brock murmured, holstering his weapon. James twitched, a fine tremor shuddering through his muscles. “Easy, easy,” he soothed, making his way slowly across the room and taking a knee in front of his soulmate. “James?” he whispered, resisting the urge to touch him. Slowly, the dark locks stirred as the man lifted his head. Bloodshot and drugged-out blue eyes met his, painfully vacant and unfocused. Dark circles bruised under those eyes, lips chapped and peeling. The hair that hung across his face was greasy and stringy. “Hey,” Brock breathed. “Told yah I’d find you, didn’t I?” The younger man blinked sluggishly, struggling to focus. “Let’s get you outta here, okay?” Brock swiped the fob across the little scanner set deep into the cuff on his right wrist.

Pain stabbed into the side of his thigh, sudden and hot. He gasped in shock as a hard shove hit him square in the chest, sending him flat on his back. Brock’s fingers brushed against his thigh, against the hard plastic handle of his own tactical knife protruding from the side. The soft click of a safety being flipped off reached his ears and he froze. He looked up to stare down the barrel of his own gun. James’ eyes were cold and hard as they stared down at him, left arm still stretched and cuffed out to the side. His aim didn’t waver from the spot between the downed man’s eyes.

“James,” Brock said slowly.

“No more,” James croaked, voice hoarse and cracking.

“Easy. You don’t need that. Lets just put the gun down, yeah?” Brock tried. “No,” the man gasped, fingers tightening on the trigger. “No more games.” A breath of displaced air had James’ aim snapping up and Brock twisting around to where Jack stood in the doorway, aim steady. “Rollins, stand down,” Brock snapped. “Not until he does,” came the brisk answer. “Jack, stand the fuck down,” Brock growled. “Not gonna happen,” Jack replied calmly. “James, listen to me,” Brock pleaded, turning back to the longhaired man. “No,” was the breathed answer. A tension eased in his shoulders, throat rolling as he swallowed. Alarm bells clanged in Brock’s head he watched a resigned acceptance flood James’ eyes.

“I won’t be turned back into a weapon,” the man whispered as he tucked the barrel of the gun up under his chin.

“No!” Brock cried, lurching upright.

James reared back, fingers trembling on the trigger. “Don’t you fucking dare,” Brock snarled. “Look at me, look at me!” Ice blue eyes flicked down to his, shuttered and emotionless. “You know me,” he said gently, forcing himself to calm down. He had to calm down. He ignored the searing pain in his leg, putting most of his weight on his other side as he got to his knees. “I don’t,” James stated flatly. “Yes you do,” Brock insisted. “They made you forget but you know me. Come on, darlin’, don’t give up on me now.”

The young man shifted his weight, confusion creased between his eyes. Brock leapt on that sliver of doubt. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” Brock said, grasping at straws. “You used to go by Bucky but these days you prefer James. You like the smell of cinnamon. You don’t like cream in your coffee and you can’t stand being cold.” A pained wince flickered across James’ face, like it did when a memory was struggling to resurface. “You play piano,” Brock pressed. “You have an unhealthy obsession with heights and the first time I told you I loved you I thought you were asleep.”

“Stop it,” the longhaired man whispered, a wince flickering across his face. “No, I’m not gonna stop,” Brock insisted, holding James’ gaze firmly. “Brock, we’re running out of time,” Jack hissed from behind him but Brock ignored him. He had eyes for nothing but the young man before him. “I’m never gonna stop,” he whispered. “Why?” James breathed, the death grip he had on the gun releasing just an inch.

“You know why,” Brock said. “Find your centre. Follow the thread.” He carefully reached up, so slowly, never breaking eye contact. James’ muscles coiled so tight, it was a miracle they didn’t snap. Brock swiped the fob across the mag cuff. It fell away from James’ wrist with a heavy clunk. Disbelief and even more confusion flooded those pale blue eyes. “I don’t know you,” James said again. “Yes you do,” Brock replied gently. “You’ve just forgotten but that’s okay. Like I always say, we’ll—.”

“Figure it out,” James breathed.

Brock’s heart leapt into his throat. “Yeah, that’s it,” he murmured. James’ eyes never left his. Then something fluttered deep in Brock’s chest, a feeling he hadn’t had in far too long. It was weak and scared and a little broken but it was there. James’ eyes widened, breath hitching, and Brock knew the younger man was feeling the same thing.

“There you are,” he breathed, cracking a gentle smile.

James eyes went wild and panicked, fluttering around the room as his breath stuttering off his lips. The gun slowly lowered to his side and finally Brock could breathe a little easier. “Good, that’s good,” he crooned, reaching slowly to take the weapon from the man. His fingers brushed over gently over James’. It felt like touching metal after dragging socked feet across a carpet. The shock radiated up, turning Brock’s whole arm numb.

James’ eyes flew wide, mouth falling open. “I don’t…no, I…,” he stuttered as that fluttering feeling surged up under Brock’s ribs again. “But they shot you,” James said sharply, voice hoarse and breathy. “They shot you through the head. I saw it. There was so much fucking blood and, and…” His breath stuttered, getting all fluttery and panicked. “Brock!” Jack hissed again but Brock waved him down. “Uh guys, the calvary’s arriving and they are not on our side!” Clint’s voice crackled in his ear but he ignored them both, focusing on the man in front of him. Hey!” Brock said sharply. James’ eyes snapped to his, chest heaving. “We have to move,” he said sternly. “Now.”

Pounding footsteps echoing down the hallway had James borderline panic attack swiftly shut down. Something hard shuttered over his eyes and like a switch was flipped, he was suddenly all soldier. Brock hissed as cold metal fingers explored the edges of the wound, feeling along his leg. “Just do—,” was all he got out before James yanked the blade swiftly from his thigh. He cursed under his breath, scrabbling at his tac vest for a pressure bandage. “Didn’t hit the artery,” James said briskly as he began to wrap it. “What would you have done if it had?” Brock cried out in pained annoyance. James said nothing, just tied the bandage off and hauled the shorter man to his feet.

Gunfire cracked down the hallway as Jack mowed down three agents as they rounded the corner. He took point as they made their way down the hallways as fast as they were able. Suddenly the floor bucked and rumbled underneath their feet as the walls shook with a roar. Klaxons blared as emergency lights overhead slammed to red. “That’ll distract them for a while,” Clint’s voice said in his ear. “Better get a move on or Cap’s gonna go all ‘stormin’ the castle’ on your asses.”

They made their way swiftly through the hallways. They were almost to the laundry room when suddenly Jack stopped. He approached the corner cautiously but nothing seemed amiss. He signalled back the all clear seconds before a heavy combat boot sent the gun flying from his hand. Jack deflected his attacker’s aim, the shot cracking down the hallway.

Brock watched as Jack smacked the gun back into the agent’s own face, whipping his head back. Two punches to the solar plexus drove the agent back into the other man who had approached from down the hallway. Brock didn’t even see Jack palm the blade, not until arterial blood was sprayed across the wall. A soft whir was the only warning before Brock found himself yanked back by the collar. He twisted in James’ grip, outrage lasting only a split second before a thick blast door slammed down right where he had been standing.

“Fuck,” Brock spat.

James’ eyes were hard, face cold and blank like they had looked during their HYDRA days. It was uncomfortable to look at again so Brock turned back to the smooth metal barrier behind him instead. “Rollins, you there?” he asked, pressing his comms deeper into his ear. “Yeah,” came Jack’s breathy reply. “There’s no keypad or anything. I don’t know how to override the doors.” Brock huffed, scanning the walls and finding nothing but smooth plaster. “You won’t be able to,” he breathed. “There’s nothing you can do. Get yourself outta here.”

“Not gonna happen,” came the instant reply. “Rollins, the base is on lockdown.” Brock interrupted. “I know how to—,” the younger man tried. “We don’t have time for your guilt trip bullshit!” Brock snapped harshly. An echoing thump rattled up the metal barrier, what Brock could only assume was Jack hitting the wall. “I’m not just gonna leave you two trapped in a fuckin’—.”

“I promised Dani!” Brock shouted back sharply.

Silence echoed through the comms and Brock bit back a curse, knowing he’d just played the last card he had and hoping that it worked. “You know there’s nothing you can do,” he said into the silence, wishing this was a private channel. “So you get your ass back to the plane. All of you because I know you other two shits are listening to every fucking word I’m saying.”

“I’m not leaving without—,” came Cap’s predictable reply but Brock cut him off swiftly. “I have him,” he said, turning back to where James was standing stiffly, eyes watching Brock like a hawk. “We have a way out.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, just popped his comm from his ear. “You have a way out?” James asked quietly. Brock grasped at straws and his limited information of HYDRA bases. He’d never been to this one but there was a definite pattern in how they were laid out. “Hanger bay probably won’t be cut off by the lockdown,” he said slowly. “Should be able override the doors. You can fly, right?” A stiff nod was his only answer. “Okay,” Brock said, pushing away the fierce ache that was radiating up his leg now that the initial adrenaline was wearing off.

By the time they made it to the hanger bay, Brock was just about out of ammo and James’ metallic fingers were flecked with blood. It had been breathtaking to watch. Brock hadn’t seen him fight, truly fight, in a long time. The second two last bullet found a home in the chest of a soldier stationed at the side door. James took care of the second, grabbing him by the vest and hurling him thirty feet into the wall.

They found no resistance once inside the bay. “That one,” he said, moving towards a helicopter parked at the far end of the bay. Brock’s leg buckled and he would have gone to the ground if James hadn’t caught him. A strong muscled arm wrapped around his waist, easily hoisting him up.

They were nearly there when there was a loud crack behind them. Brock flinched but James moved first and a bullet ricocheted off his metal bicep with a loud ping. _“When are you gonna learn, soldier?”_ a man spat in Russian as Brock turned, peaking out over James’ protective arm. The man was dressed expensively, hair slicked back with too much product and a wild look in his eye. He kept yelling in Russian, gun waving wildly. Brock could practically smell his fear from here.

He felt fingers brush his and then the gun was yanked from his hand. A shot rang out and greasy hair dropped, gurgling from the hole the bullet tore through his throat. Brock felt his face suddenly grabbed and that was the only warning he got before James pulled him into a fierce kiss. It was brutal with too much teeth and it was perfect. The younger man pulled away just as quickly, but let his forehead fall forward to press against Brock’s. “He told me you were dead,” James whispered.

Before Brock could think of what to say to that, James was pulling away. “We have to go,” he said stiffly, turning his back on the fallen man who was still gasping like a fish out of water. He ushered Brock towards the helicopter, bodily lifting him into the copilot seat. He disappeared briefly, returning as the ceiling began to retract with a loud metallic groan.

They flew in silence for a long while. “We’re running low on fuel,” James said softly. “We should put down near a city. Steal a car,” Brock replied, blinking away the dizzy feeling that comes with blood loss. “I know who you are,” the younger man replied carefully, eyes not straying from straight ahead of himself. “But I still don’t really remember you.”

“That’s okay,” Brock murmured. “You will. And when you do we’ll—.”

“Figure it out,” James finished, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “That something you say often?” Brock laughed, breathy and giddy and relieved. “Often enough,” he replied, shaking his head as they flew out over the wilderness.

 

 

_FOUR MONTHS LATER_

  
The sound of rain pattering against glass created a soft background ambiance for the radio playing softly in the background. A man’s voice declared that monsoon season was coming early. The room was dark, the only illumination from the soft dove-grey morning light that streamed through the windows and the skylight.

James sat in the big bay window, legs crossed and pulled in tight to his chest. A mug was clutched in his hands, resting on the rest of his knees as steam curled softly past his nose. He was shirtless, corded muscles silhouetted against the rain-splattered glass. His hair was pulled back out of his face in a low bun, a tendrils pulled loose and falling around his face as he watched the rain.

Brock couldn’t keep the soft smile off his face as he watched, leaning in the doorway. As if sensing his presence, or maybe he’d heard the gentle creak of the floorboards, the corner of James’ mouth twitched upwards. “Fuckin’ creepy, the way you’re al’ays watchin’ me,” he called out. Brock’s smile pulled into a full grin at the soft twang in the man’s speech. This time around, it wasn’t just memories that had returned. This time, James had regained a softened version of his Brooklyn drawl.

Brock pushed off the wall and padded barefoot across the kitchen. He perched on the ledge across from the younger man. James’ eyes flicked up to his, a teasing smile tucked behind those pale blue irises. “I talked to Steve,” he said, looking back out over the slopping cliff that bordered the back of their house. “And how’s Captain Tight-Pants doing?” Brock drawled, leaning back against the cool glass.

James shrugged, shoulders rippling effortlessly. “He gets why I didn’t come back,” he replied. “He doesn’t like it but he gets it.” Brock swallowed, shifting further onto the window seat. “So you’re happy here then?” he asked, cupping a hand against the longhaired man’s calf. “For now,” was the amused reply. “I mean Indonesia’s beautiful but I wouldn’t wanna be buried here, yah know?” Brock chuckled, massaging his fingers up the muscle of the younger man’s leg. He got to the back of his knee, wiggling his fingers against the back of the joint as the other hand reached for the coffee mug. This earned him a foot to the chest, shoving him back against the wall.

“Fuckin’ try and steal my coffee,” James snarked, tone harsh but eyes dancing. “Bastard. You gotta earn that shit.” Brock chuckled as toes were wiggled in his face. He took the aforementioned appendage in both his hands and dug the pads of his thumbs into the arch. “Come here,” he said, tossing the foot aside and grabbing James’ wrist. It took a bit of wrangling but eventually he got the big man turned around, lying back between Brock’s legs and against his chest.

“You just wanna be closer to the coffee,” James accused teasingly. Brock chuckled into his soulmate’s long hair. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” James just snorted. “Jesus, just take it,” he drawled, holding up the steaming mug. “Ugh, shit, why do you put so much fuckin’ sugar in it?” Brock winced as he took a sip. “That’s what you get,” the younger man teased. Brock snorted rudely. James craned his neck around to look up at Brock, a twinkle in his eye. A hand cupped the back of Brock’s neck and he found himself pulled down into a kiss. The man tasted like bitter coffee and mint toothpaste.

Brock hummed contentedly as he pulled back and started carding his fingers through James’ long hair, pulling more strange free of the elastic. He felt the man practically melt back against him, a contented hum rumbling deep in his chest. “You’re part fuckin’ cat, I swear,” Brock teased, scratching blunt nails along James’ scalp. An arm was wrapped around his bent leg, hand gripping his shin lightly. He rested his chin on top James’ head, listening to the gentle sound of the rain.

Slowly, he felt James’ breathing change until it was smooth and slow. The hand around his shin relaxed and Brock plucked the coffee mug from limp fingers, setting it carefully aside. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the comforting warmth that radiated between the two of them, travelling between that restored invisible thread that was stronger than ever. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, its the end! This was a long journey and thank you to everyone who stuck with me and are still reading. Sorry it took so long for this final chapter. It took me a while to figure out how to wrap it up. xoxo to everyone and feedback is my fairydust as always!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is my fairy dust! It's how I know I'm on the right track!


End file.
